


A Case of High Stakes

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 18:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 65,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17289086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: One evening an old schoolfellow of Holmes drops in at Baker Street unexpectedly and the case he has for Holmes to solve turns out to be the one, that will change the detective's life forever.





	1. Little Lou (Watson)

**Author's Note:**

> One could say this is an AU, but then again it's also compatible with canon, or at least it will be eventually... - So I guess it depends on your point of view.
> 
> This story has two different narrators, so the chapters will state who is currently 'contributing' to the tale. Just so you don't get confused why there is a name in the heading of each chapter.

Little Lou (Watson)

There is hardly a case, which involved my friend so personally and in such private a manner, as did the following account. It was several months after Holmes had returned from his three-year-long journey that one late October evening, we sat comfortably together in front of the fireplace. My friend had convinced me, that during my wife's convalescence, which she spent together with her trusted friend Mrs Forester in Torquay, I should return to my old lodgings at Baker Street. It had been a trying day at the practice, which I currently shared with Doctor Verner. I missed my wife and I was only too glad, to just sit and listen to my friend playing his violin, which he currently did. There where times, when I found his fiddling a bit trying for my nerves, but that night he had chosen to play some recognisable pieces and not just reflect upon his mood. But this serene atmosphere was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Holmes asked, putting down his Stradivarius.

“No, not I,” I answered. 

A moment later there was a tap on our living room door and the maid brought in a man of some height and substance. He wore a grey tweed suit, an ulster and a brown bowler hat and looked every inch the country squire. In his arms, he was carefully carrying a laundry basket.

“Sir C...” the maid tried to announce but was interrupted by the man himself.

“Holmes, I do need your help! I am quite at a loss what to make out of this.” the man cried out, pushing himself past the startled girl, clutching the basket as if it contained something of immense value.

My friend raised an eyebrow, surprised at the familiarity with which the man spoke. I could see his eyes dart over the man.

“I see you arrived by train from Lewes early today, with the original intention of returning there again by afternoon. But since you are still here and feel the need to consult me at this late hour, something must have detained you and your return has become less certain. And since I doubt very much, that you have started out carrying that basket, I come to the conclusion, that it is the very reason you have knocked on my door.”

“Well, I have read of your observations and deductions, that is why I am here. But I can see, that you do not remember, where we have met before.” the man spoke, placing the basket carefully onto our dining table. “Well, I assume I have changed a bit since we have last seen one another. You certainly did. You must have grown at least a foot and a half, if not more. And I could hear downstairs, that your violin lessons did pay out after all. Mine did not. You might remember the day when I tried the upstroke so vigorously that I stabbed Mr Rupert, who stood behind me in the face with my bow. He never trusted me with anything again after that and decided that a piano would be a safer instrument for me to play.”

“Cedric Stephrey!” my friend cried out. “Yes, I remember that incident well. But you are not here to talk about times past. So what is so pressing a matter, that you had to disturb two decent citizens in their well-earned recreation?”

“It indeed has something to do with this basket. - Or rather with what is in it.” the man fidgeted.

“What is it then? An infant? Or...” 

“It is indeed a child.” our visitor interrupted my friend's thoughts. “How did you guess?”

“I do not guess. I conclude.” Holmes corrected him. “You carried the basket in an unusual manner. Normally one would use the handles – unless one does not trust them enough and hence holds it underneath. That implies either something rather heavy or something quite fragile. Heavy it was not since you could easily carry it around, so it was something fragile. If it had been a vase or china figurine, it most probably would have been put into a box stuffed with straw – but it would have been my second suggestion - a box might not have been at hand. Anyway, the first assumption led to a small creature. A kitten or puppy would hardly suffice to knock on my door at this time of day, since it is well past nine, so the most likely content of the basket would be a baby. Is it yours?” 

Sir Cedric looked abashed. “No, it is my sisters. I believe.”

“You believe? What has she to say about it? I dare to assume she is an unmarried sister by the awkwardness of the situation.”

“Well, that is the very thing, she has left the baby girl in my care and is gone. I don't know, where she is currently.”

“That indeed is odd behaviour,” Holmes admitted, walking over to the basket and pulling aside the blanket carefully. A tiny head with a shock of dark hair was revealed. The little girl was sleeping soundly, slightly kicking her feet and waving her puny fists in her untainted dreams. 

“The baby must be very young still.” the Holmes observed.

I got up to join him. Holmes was right. The child was tiny as it lay there, but she seemed to be absolutely healthy and well cared for. She could certainly not be older than a few days. I told the two men.

“But should a woman not rest after she has given birth?” a concerned Sir Cedric asked.

I nodded. Even though lately some doctors had come to the conclusion, that bed rest was actually unnecessary, even those thought it essential, that a woman should not overexert herself during the weeks following her confinement.

“You said, your sister left the child in your care, she hence must have communicated with you. How?”

“Oh, I have received a letter yesterday afternoon – here it is.” the squire answered, handing Holmes a neatly folded letter.

“Dear Imogen,” Holmes read aloud, “I am called away for a few days, could you please take care of little Lou, while I am away. Martha has asked for her holidays and just as well, I would not want to leave the responsibility resting on her shoulders for too long. If you could come to London tomorrow with the earliest train possible, I would greatly appreciate it. If need be, take Cedric into confidence. It's hardly any use hiding it any longer. Love Harriet - Imogen is your wife, I presume.”

Sir Cedric answered in the affirmative.

“So how did the letter end up with you? Is it not possible that there has been a great misunderstanding?”

“Holmes, a misunderstanding is exactly what I am hoping for. As for your first question – my wife was called away almost four weeks ago to take care of her mother. She had a stroke and it does seem she will not recover. And then there is Viola as well, that is my wife's sister. She has suffered from brain fever when she was a child and also needs a lot of care. Apart from short messages, I have no news from my Imogen. Which is hardly surprising since I trust her to be kept extremely busy. All my wife's mail I put on her writing table it is just that Hattie's letter was as an express and I took the liberty to open it for my wife since it did appear to be a matter of some urgency and required prompt attention, which my wife at the moment was unable to give.”

“Who did you think little Lou was?” I wondered, reading the epistle over again.

“On her last visit, my sister spoke of getting herself a dog. There have been a couple of burglaries around where she lives and as she lives on her own aside from a young maid that also sleeps in the house. She thought it a sensible plan to guard herself against any evil that might arise. I had thought little Lou was a puppy.”

“Where does she live?” the detective wanted to know.

“Chiswick.” 

“Ah, the Chiswick Chiseller's, the police calls them. I am happy to say, that it has gone quiet there again lately. They seemed to have taken advantage of the summer vacations and since then have kept their heads low. I dare say a dog might be a wise thing though for two – well three young ladies, actually.”

He wrapped the blanket around the little creature and sat back down onto his chair.

“Please Cedric, take a seat.” he offered and then asked me, to organise some tea. I rang the bell and the maid appeared.

“Could you not simply ask your wife about the child?” Holmes inquired.

“I have not thought about it, I have to admit.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and then shook his head in exasperated disbelieve.

“Well, it would have been the most obvious step to take, since your sister has quite clearly indicated in her letter, that your wife is in her confidence.”

“You think so? Perhaps I could send her a telegram.”

The maid arrived with the tea tray and as she put the tray down I could see her stare at the baby, that was still sleeping in its basket atop the dining table, in amazement. My friend followed her gaze with knitted brows.

“Jane, could you please take care of the little one for the moment? Mrs Hudson will be all too happy to look after her as well, I am sure.” Holmes finally asked. Or rather ordered, since there was no room for any refusal. 

“Sir.” the girl curtsied and carefully picked up the sleeping child as if she had done so a thousand times before. “I have four younger brothers and three younger sisters. It will be no bother at all,” she explained her aptitude, smiling at the child in her arms.

“So it seems. Do you think, you could look after her till tomorrow, perhaps?” Holmes took the opportunity.

“Sure, if Mrs, Hudson does not mind.”

“I'll take care she does not.” 

A curt nod followed and she was out of the door.

“What is it with women and babies?” Holmes shook his head. “Please, help yourself.”

For several minutes we sat in silence, drinking our tea. 

“I think I might just dispatch the telegram right now and then leave for Chiswick and come back in the morning.” Cedric Stephrey finally said, getting up from his chair.

“There are some telegram forms in my desk drawer.” I offered and so he sat down at my desk to write his message.

“Do you think this will suffice?” he looked up after a few minutes. “Dear Imogen, Hattie has left a child in my care. Could you please enlighten me as to what is going on with her and where she might be? Cedric”

“It might be a little blunt, but then again, I do not know your wife. And you said, she is extremely busy, so I reckon she will appreciate it's shortness. I think it should give you the information needed anyhow. - If she indeed has it.”

“And you are certain, your housemaid will be able to look after the child till tomorrow?”

“That should be the least of your worries. She has managed to survive in her position for more than half a year now – if she was not reliable I can assure you, my landlady would have gotten rid of her already. Anyhow, in case there is a problem, Mrs Hudson will be there as well and of course, we have a doctor at hand.” Holmes assured, picking up his violin again.

xxx

It was almost midday when Holmes' old schoolfellow arrived again at Baker Street. His face was grave and the groove on his forehead was more prominent than the night before.

“No good news then, I suppose,” Holmes said as soon as he had laid eyes upon the man.

“No.” The large man slumped down onto a chair, tossing a dispatch in Holmes' direction.

“Dear Cedric, I am at a loss as to what to say. Harriet has not taken me into confidence, but she looked decidedly peaky last time I saw her – that was in June. I did not think any of it then, but perhaps it would explain a lot if she had been expecting. I was always tired then, as you might remember. But how she could be so careless, I do not know. I cannot believe it of her. There might still be another possibility I am sure. She used to help at a house for destitute women in Lisson Grove, perhaps it is a child left in her care from there. Thinking about it and knowing your sister, I do honestly believe, that that is the more likely option. - I so hope it is. The place is called Saint Anne's if I remember it correctly. I am sorry to be not more useful, love Imogen” he read aloud again.

“Have you ever heard of Saint Anne's?” Sir Cedric asked the two of us. I shook my head, but Holmes, knowing London better than hardly any other man I knew, nodded thoughtfully. 

“Yes, I have. It's a place where women can go to give birth. They either try and set up mother and child with a charitable family or find suitable adoptive parents.”

“Needless to say,” I interjected, “that there are more children than charitable families.”

“Yes, needless to say so.”

“Then perhaps we should go there?” the desperate brother asked.

xxx

It was obvious that Sir Cedric was appalled by what met his eyes. The destitution and wretchedness of the place must be in stark contrast to the rolling hills around Lewes or the cosy homesteads of Chiswick. Most people visiting London and sometimes even the ones living there are never aware of these places within a few furlongs of their accommodations and residences. Places where people lived in homes that could only be described as being hovels and rattraps; among dirt, refuse, excrement and desolation. With no sanitary facilities worth being called thus and shabby water pumps to supply them with the most essential of liquids. The alehouses where dingy places where crime was rive and prostitution a common sight. 

Saint Anne's was a moderate sized building in one of the narrow side lanes. It also was in odd contrast to its surroundings. It was kept in decent shape, no peeling paint or grubby windows, but a comfortable primness that seemed strangely inviting in this desolate part of town. As we entered, we found ourselves in a small but snugly warm waiting room, heated by an iron stove on the wall opposite the entrance door, next to a large and currently deserted desk. Every one of the about ten chairs was occupied and a few of the women where clearly due to give birth. I could see my two companions get a bit uncomfortable at the prospect of possibly being present at such an event. A young woman, clearly in charge of the waiting room entered through a door to our right and seeing the three of us, looked slightly irritated. 

“Sirs, how may I help you? This is a hospital strictly for women.” It was the polite way to attempt to throw us out, but Holmes ignored the insolence and instead answered what was actually intended to be a rhetorical question.

“We are here to inquire after a Miss Harriet Stephrey.”

“Never heard of her.”

“But she is supposed to help out as a volunteer.” Sir Cedric insisted.

“I could have a look in the register, but I am sure I have never heard of her. Stephrey...” she trailed off, walking over to the desk.

“As I have said, there is no volunteer of that name.” She said after a while having consulted the not overly thick volume. 

“Could it possibly be, that she has adopted one of the children from here?” Holmes dug deeper.  
“We do not give children to unmarried women – or baby farmers for that matter. Doctor Stephens has made sure of that. And now, please excuse me, since Doctor Stephens has been called away to an emergency three days ago, we are short staffed.”

“Doctor Stephens is the head doctor?” Holmes asked.

“Yes. And now unless you know a Doctor who might be willing to help us out here, I must ask you to leave. Mrs Fuller, if you will follow me please.”

An older woman got up from her seat and with a weary smile walked after the young nurse, the signs of chronic syphilis clearly showing on her wrinkled face.

With a sigh, I took off my overcoat and my frock coat and rolled up my sleeves. 

“Watson?” Holmes looked at me and then nodded approvingly. “Perhaps, old friend, you might be able to find out something about Miss Stephrey after all.”

I followed the two amazed women into the recesses of the small hospital.

xxx

When I returned home in the evening Holmes was alone, pouring over a medical volume. Cedric Stephrey had left for his own home again together with baby Louise.

“Have you found out something?” I inquired.

“I think so, and yet, I am still at a loss as to what to do with my findings. - This book was written by a Doctor Stephens and I presume it is the very doctor who heads Saint Anne's.” 

“Oh, I know that book and the author, aside from Sir Owen he is one of the best men in this field. I never thought he would work in such a place, but it makes sense. A very polite and humble chap he is.”

“You have met Doctor Stephens then?” my friend asked eagerly and surprised.

“No, I have never met him. But I had a case of a young woman suffering from an ovarian cyst and I wrote to him asking for his expertise. His advice helped to save her. That makes it indeed even more remarkable that he works at a place like that. Sounds as if he could take his pick or even set up practice in Harley Street.”

“Yes, I agree. This book is very well written, I was surprised to even find a chapter dedicated to the pathological signs of rape and abuse.” Holmes closed the book and pulled two neatly folded sheets of paper out of his pocket.

“After we left you in Lisson Grove, we, of course, went to Chiswick. I had a good look around the house, Watson, and I found this.” he handed me the papers. “Read them.”

Dearest Reymond,  
if I may call you so - and I think I just might, since it took me so much trouble to find out your first name - but I must tell you just how much your letter touched me and how ardently I would like to meet you. I never dared to dream, you would answer my note and you have helped me so much with your advice and your sound and clear words that I just have to show my gratitude to you in person.  
You just need to tell me where and when we could see each other and I will make sure to be there. You seem to hide a lot behind your work and I would dearly love to be the one person, who brings you into the light.  
In loving admiration  
Caroline Briggs

“Who is Caroline Briggs?” 

“She is an opera singer. Quite good, but her voice is lacking emotion.” Holmes replied.

“Perhaps Doctor Stephens could change that.” I quipped.

“Read the other letter.”

Dear Miss Briggs,  
the letter I have written to you was in a strictly professional way and I beg you to refrain from any further pursuance of your seeming admiration for my person. I can assure you that I am by no means the man you take me to be. I am neither hiding nor do I desire a life in the limelight. I am glad I could help you and will do so again if there is the professional need for it, but unless it is concerning your health I do not wish any further communication.  
Yours respectfully  
R. H. Stephens

“Admittedly it does not appear as if he is willing to alter Miss Briggs lack of vocal emotion,” I agreed. “But what do you see in these letters? Apart from the confirmation that he is a polite man. - I wonder how many men would have rejected such an impertinent offer in such a noble but firm way.” 

“What I see in these letters? Nothing.” Holmes lit his pipe thoughtfully before continuing. “It is more the fact, that I found both letters on Miss Stephrey's desk. And that Reymond is spelt in a peculiar way, don't you think?”

Aghast I stared at the two sheets of paper now spread out on the table in front of me.

“But why would Miss Stephrey have Doctor Stephens' personal correspondence in her house? Do you suspect them to have an affair?”

My companion smiled pensively, reaching for another letter.

“Here, Watson, the letter that was addressed to Lady Imogen.”

I read the already familiar words, failing to understand the significance in regard to the other two epistles. 

“It is the exact same handwriting, Watson.” Holmes enlightened me.

I compared the letter with the one from Caroline Briggs, but could not see much familiarity. 

“The exact same handwriting than Doctor Stephens'”

I stared at the two letters in disbelieve. But Holmes was right. It was the same handwriting, energetic, sharp, intellectual.

“I have to admit, I have rarely seen a female handwriting looking this strong and almost masculine – and yet, if you look closely there is elegance and grace. I have to admit, I am intrigued by Sir Cedric's sister. Or perhaps I should say, by Doctor Stephens.”

“Are you implying, that...” I stared at the man opposite of me.

“Yes, Watson, I am implying that Harriet Stephrey is Doctor Reymond H. Stephens.”

“But how? And why?”

“Watson, you must be aware, that women are allowed to study medicine.”

“Of course. But I have actually never seen a woman in practice.”

“Would you chose a female doctor as your medical consultant?” Holmes asked with a smirk.

“It would be indecent, no doubt!” I retorted.

“But you are treating female patients as well as male ones. Where is the difference?” 

“That is something completely different, Holmes.” 

“Really? I disagree.”

“Would you go to a woman doctor?” I could not resist asking.

“Yes, if she is a good doctor, I would.”

“Then it is a shame, Doctor Stephens has specialised in gynaecology and childbirth.”

“Yes, it does not appear likely that I will ever require her aid unless I turn out to be a medical wonder,” he laughed. 

But then, turning serious again continued: “I have written a note to Saint Anne's only minutes before you arrived to establish, if my deductions regarding Doctor Stephens' sex are actually correct, but that still leaves us with the problem where to find her.”

“No, Doctor Stephens has been called to Winchester. There seemed to have been an emergency of some sorts. That is what I could gather during the afternoon.”

“Excellent, then we have solved the first part of the puzzle.”

Half an hour later Holmes' theory was confirmed. 

“So that only leaves the question if little Lou is her child or not,” I remarked over a light supper. 

“I am pretty certain she is one of her patients, Watson,” Holmes answered looking up from one of the evening papers.

“Watson! Look at that!” he handed me the paper.

Mysterious disease killing infants in Winchester, the headlines read. 

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed after reading the article, shocked. 

Almost thirty children had died within a week, all within the same poverty-stricken district of Winchester. The officials had tried to keep the epidemic as secret as possible, till finally, it had carried off the baby daughter of a merchant and councillor, who lived in a part of town bordering the affected area and by now, the whole city was in a panic. Parents fled, hoping to bring their children to safety, fingers were pointed for not raising an alarm any sooner and all reason seemed to have disappeared.

In my mind, I pictured the lonely figure of a woman with long flowing hair and a white gown trying to restore sense and health. And as I fell asleep she slowly turned into my lovely Mary.


	2. An Early Morning Call (Watson)

Chapter 2 – An early morning call

I was just descending the stairs from my bedroom the next morning when I heard the frantic ringing of the doorbell and the hurrying footsteps of the maid. As I entered the living room, Holmes stuck his head out from behind his bedroom door. 

“What is going on, Watson?” he asked, still looking sleepy, his hair dishevelled and stubble on his chin. 

“I have no idea. Could either be a patient or a client.”

I looked at the clock on the mantlepiece, it showed a quarter to seven. From downstairs, I could hear the voices of our landlady as she took charge of the situation.

“Go, get some tea, Jane and bring it upstairs. I'll wake Mr Holmes and the Doctor immediately. Good grief, girl, you are shivering like a leave. I'll take care of a good fire in a moment.” 

By now they had made it up the stairs and I could see the young woman who was the cause of the early disturbance. She was dressed in a plain but elegant walking costume of grey wool, but neither coat nor hat or gloves, her hair was only pinned back but not yet up and her long locks curled in hazel coloured ringlets down to her waist. She had a pretty face, but currently, her large dark blue eyes had a haunted look and her lips where quivering. She gave the impression of unbelievable distress and all she could do at Mrs Hudson's kind administrations, was nod as if in a trance.

“Dear me, what is the matter, Miss?” I exclaimed.

She tried to answer but could only look at me, lost for words. 

“Come, come sit down. Here, by the fire.” I offered her my arm, which she took. I could see the cold sweat on her forehead which did not bode well. Slowly I tried to walk her over to the settee, but all of a sudden her face turned an ashen hue and she lost consciousness. 

“Dear Lord!” Mrs Hudson cried out, coal scuttle and paper in hand to light the flames as promised. “I did not see that coming.”

“Help me loosen her corset. Now!” I could feel the young woman's breathing become irregular and when trying for her pulse it was almost indistinguishable, fluttering and racing. By now Holmes, now almost dressed, was kneeling by my side, grabbing a knife from his desk and cutting first the waist of her dress and then the lacing of her corset. 

“She has just gone into shock,” I said, more to myself than anyone around me.

“See if you can find out her name and address,” I ordered Holmes, who still knelt beside the lifeless body, looking carefully for any sign of recovery. 

He grabbed her purse and emptied the contents onto the floor, while I kept a close watch over my patient. But her breathing had become more steady and calm already and I could already feel her pulse again without difficulty, when suddenly and with an ejaculation of surprise the detective picked up a familiar card.

“I know who this is, Watson,” he looked pale and shaken. “This is none other than Miss Harriet Stephrey.”

“Dear me!” 

I looked at her closely now. There where some familiarities, but her hair was darker and she was decidedly more slender than her brother, but also tall and with a stately gracefulness. Her face was a pretty oval with high cheekbones a straight and slender nose and beautiful full lips. Her eyebrows arched in an elegant manner and her lashes were unusually long. Looking up at my friend I could see him look at her face intently.

“Will she be all right?” he whispered. 

“I think so,” I replied and to my relief, it did indeed take but a moment for her blood pressure to normalise and a few minutes later her eyes fluttered open. 

“Would you like some water?” I asked her, as she slowly recalled her whereabouts, now looking thoroughly exhausted, but at least not alarmed by the strange surroundings.

“Please,” she answered quietly. 

Holmes, who was still on the floor next to her, with the contents of her purse stuffed back into it, helped her to sit up and I aided her with the glass. 

“Thank you,” she smiled weakly, resting herself against Holmes' chest, her head on his shoulder and cheek, almost sinking into the embrace and I was relieved that my friend did not shy away from the unfamiliar closeness. From my experience as a doctor I knew, that closeness was the best remedy for a shock. Knowing not to be alone, hearing and feeling another human being was better medicine than any doctor could supply. 

“Perhaps we should move you over to the sofa,” Holmes suggested to her calmly after several minutes in which the lady had almost fallen asleep. - A most natural reaction after such a collapse.

She looked at him in amazement as if she was only now aware of the man holding her close. 

“I am so sorry. I must seem like a complete fool.” she stammered, looking down on herself and suddenly realising, that her clothes had been tampered with.

“What has happened?”

“You arrived here almost an hour ago, obviously in a state of shock and suddenly you lost consciousness. I believe you must have had a severe shock, Miss,” I explained while Holmes helped her to her feet, carefully guiding her over to the sofa.

“Good God, I began to think it was all just a dream. But it cannot be, how else would I be here. Where am I anyway? Who are you? You have been so kind to a complete stranger, I do not know how to ever thank you.”

“You are not quite a stranger, Miss. My name is Doctor John Watson and that gentleman there is Mr Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Oh, I remember. There was a card on my side table... - I think.” 

“And I think, you should first rest a few moments and have a cup of Mrs Hudson's excellent tea and perhaps a biscuit. A shock is no trifle.” I suggested.

“Yes, you are right, of course.” 

xxx

“I arrived home late last night and went to bed straight after making myself a cup of tea. On the way to the kitchen, I spotted this on the side table.” Harriet Stephrey put the calling card on the table that had told Holmes who she was. “How it got there, you will know best yourself.” She looked the detective straight in the eye a faint but challenging smile playing around her lips.

“Your brother engaged us in finding you,” he explained to her. “ Sir Cedric was very concerned about you disappearing in that manner and leaving a baby in his care. We went to your house to look for a lead, and in the process, I left my card on the side table so you could perhaps inform me of your return.”

“Which I have obviously done, though involuntarily. But anyhow, I wrote to Imogen, not Cedric, and she would have known, what is going on, I explained the situation to her a couple of weeks ago.”

“As a matter of fact, she does not. She has been called away four weeks since to care for her mother and sister and has been kept too busy for any kind of communication but the most essential to her husband and children. As I understand it, she has asked your brother to keep her mail safe until her return.”

“Oh. That explains a lot. I have been surprised to not to have heard from her.”

“So who is little Louise? She is not your daughter, I assume?” 

“She is the child of a friend of mine who has contracted a light form of malaria when in the tropics with her husband – he is an officer. They have returned only a few months ago. During her late pregnancy, she had an unusually severe spell of the disease and the baby was born prematurely. She is still in the process of recovering her health and asked me if with my experience I could take care of the child and try and coddle her up. Louise was a very weak baby and I have to say her state of health now exceeds my wildest expectations.”

“Well, the little creature was left in the hands of one of the foremost specialists in the field,” Holmes smiled. “Was it not, Doctor Stephens?”

“So you found out about that, too? Then you might also know, where I have been these last few days?”

“You have been called to Winchester to help with an epidemic raging among the infants there.”

“Yes. It is just that I do not think that it is a disease, but that these children have been poisoned, and that closes the circle to my rather more dramatic than was intended entrance this morning.”

“How so?”

She took another sip of tea and seemed to brace herself for the tale to come.

“I came to the conclusion that there must be something sinister going on, something that is a crime and not a disease yesterday morning. We had one little girl of about eight months who was recovering quickly from the disease after she was transferred into our care and released her to her mother again. The next morning – yesterday – she was dead. Well, it could have been a coincidence, had it been an isolated case, but I dug through the files at the time to get any indication to what we are dealing with. And this story repeated itself over and over again. Several times the children left the hospital again in relatively good health and the next day, they had died. I began to ask around and another pattern turned up – the children that had died, were the ones, that were fed on bottled milk. Not a single child that has been nursed, had died or even contracted the disease. I went to the Winchester police – and was consequently told I was being irrational and hysteric.” her face showed the annoyance she must have felt.

“So I went back to the small charity hospital and spoke to one of the local doctors. He, knowing my reputation, took me seriously and within the hour all staff was informed and kept close watch. No child – no matter if healthy or not, was to be released. By then I had decided to inform Scotland Yard and took a late train to London.”

“Did you inform Scotland Yard yet?” Holmes wanted to know.

“I had intended to do so this morning and return to Winchester again afterwards. But then...” she trailed off, looking haunted again, before taking a deep breath and continuing:

“As said, I had my cup of tea in the back sitting room, picked up your card from the table in the hall and went to bed upstairs. I had set my alarm clock to about six o'clock, wanting to drop in at Saint Anne's, pick up any correspondence from there and then carry on to the police. I got dressed, got myself ready as far as you have seen me this morning, intending to return and finish my toilette after breakfast, when I ran into – I don't even know how to describe it. In short – last night, someone has been inside my house, while I was sleeping. Moreover, that person must have been in my dressing room, which is right next to my bedroom – with the door between the two rooms not even closed. I had lit a fire and it had gotten a bit too warm, so I had opened the door for the heat to spread a bit.”

“How can you be sure, there was someone in your dressing room?”

“In the middle of my hallway hung a puppet, life-size, with a skull as it's head and a dagger through where the heart would be – wearing my travelling costume. - The very one I had worn last night and that I had hung up behind the door of my dressing room.” 

My blood ran cold as I listened to her story and from the look upon my friends face I could see, he was also shaken. The young woman pulled the blanket, which we had wrapped around her, closer, shivering uncontrollably. 

“I think Watson, we will go to Chiswick. Tell Verner you are busy, he'll be all right on his own. Shall I bring something back from there, Miss Stephrey?”

“No. I'll come with you. I was so out of my wits with fear this morning, I have to come to terms with it, or I shall never be able to enter my house and feel safe and comfortable in it ever again.” she got up decidedly. “If Mrs Hudson could just lend me a couple of pins, perhaps. I think else I might cause a bit of a stir again if I step out of the house like this and I have had enough attention today, to last me the remainder of the year.”

Holmes' unceremoniously handed her his long winter overcoat, which she put on with a surprised glance at him but without any hesitation.

xxx

Little more than half an hour later we found ourselves in front of the small and comfortable looking villa. It gave a perfectly peaceful impression, with its whitewashed walls, the brick red roof tiles, the bright blue door and the little cottage garden in front of it, complete with a trellis and some very late climbing roses, defying the lateness of the year. Only on closer inspection, the scene revealed a sinister undertone. The curtains were still drawn, the door to the house had not been closed and a piece of the hem of the ladies petticoat had caught in the garden gate.

“I fled the house and ran in the direction of the main road, where I was fortunate enough to hail a cab. I presume I handed the cabby your card and he dropped me off on your doorstep.” she explained as we approached the entrance.

Holmes carefully examined the path leading up to the house, staring intently on the ground. He suddenly bent down in front one of the flower beds next to the door, whipping out his magnifying glass. He walked along a hidden trail and finally stopped at a large window, that was a good four feet off the ground. Holmes pressed his hands against the window and pushed the lower pane up without any difficulty or sound.

“So this is where he got in,” he shouted towards us, taking the same way into the house, the burglar had taken. He took his time looking around, taking the opportunity of having the field all to himself, while Miss Stephrey and I had sat down on a garden bench across the small piece of lawn. I could see him open the curtains of the upstairs rooms one after another and finally the ones downstairs. Finally, Holmes flung open the front door and waved for us to come in. His face was more pale than usual and he took a concerned glance at his client, who was clinging to my arm.

“Have a look first, Watson.” he invited me, stepping forward and taking my place.

What met my eyes was enough to shake even a level-headed man and thinking that this poor woman had come upon this without any warning and in her own home, made it the more understandable that she had lost all sense and had run out of the house. There, in the middle of the hallway swung indeed a life-sized doll, hung up by a hangman's noose, it's head a grinning skull – remnants of dried flesh still attached attesting to its authenticity, sporting a wig with long dark hair of an indistinguishable colour and the wooden hands bound with a paisley silk scarf behind it's back. From its chest, the handle of a dagger was protruding and a red handkerchief was meant to indicate blood flow. In the light breeze coming from the open door, this abomination slowly revolved back and forth, sometimes showing the front, sometimes the profile. I looked up and saw a rough iron hook that had been drilled into the ceiling, fine cracks in the paint and plaster showing that it had been a hurried job.

“Are you sure you want to have another look?” I could hear Holmes ask her, concern in his voice.

“Yes, I am prepared for it and at least this time I am not on my own and there will be no element of surprise.” Harriet Stephrey smiled bravely and approached the door, still supported by my friend's arm.

“It is as horrible as I remember.” she stated calmly, not averting her eyes but looking almost curious now, asking after a while: “Could you help me take it down, please?”

“I think, you should rest, while we take it down and have a closer look. Perhaps we might find something that indicates who is threatening you.”

“You think it is a threat then?” I asked.

“What, Doctor, would you take this to be?” the detective asked impatiently. 

xxx

While Miss Stephrey went upstairs to change her clothes, Holmes and I found a stepladder and while I cut the rope, Holmes caught the grizzly figure and carefully lay it down on the floor. Carefully he looked it over before beginning to take it apart. He began with the dagger, prying it out of the sawdust-filled torso. After closer examination, it turned out to be a rather elaborate paper knife, fit for a gentleman's desk, but with several rhinestones missing. The handkerchief was ordinary in contrast, being of plain and fairly rough cotton, dyed in a vivid red. I could hear my friend whistle from between his teeth.

“What is it?” I asked.

He handed me the piece of fabric and in one corner the initials R. G. W. where embroidered into it, in the same vivid red.

“Do you think these are the initials of the person who did this?” I asked, wondering how a person who had acted with such insolence could have overlooked the fact that he had left a handkerchief sporting his initials.

“I have not made up my mind yet, Watson. He might even have left this on purpose.”

He continued with his task, searching every inch of this strange puppet, finally beginning to take off the dress to reveal a shabby dress form underneath, it's velvet casing torn and greasy, the slash the knife left clearly visible and the sawdust and wood wool bursting out of it. The wooden stand of it had been sawed off in the attempt to make it more handy, but the wooden arms had been left attached.

“Why does this thing have hands?” I wondered.

“To display a complete outfit, including matching gloves.” Miss Stephrey had descended the stairs again. 

“Thank you, I have been wondering as well,” Holmes remarked. He had reached the head by now, and having taken off the wig first he yanked at it slightly and easily managed to detached the skull from the dress form, revealing that a metal bar had been rammed first into the torso and then the skull propped fairly loose onto it and that the noose was held in place by a few rough stitches at the back of the neck of the dummy.”

“Do you think it was taken from a grave?” Lady Harriet asked, looking of the remnants of skin and muscle as well as very little hair that was still attached to the bone.

“No, it is a medical specimen,” Holmes answered, pointing at a small number engraved at the base of the skull. 

“But do they not clean them first?” I had never seen anything akin to this.

“Not necessarily,” the other doctor answered. “There is a collection of criminal pathological samples at Barts that where left exactly as they where found. This might be one of them. This could be a cut mark, could it not?” she had by now knelt down next to Holmes and pointed out the small groove on the skulls zygomatic bone.

“Yes, there is also an indication, that he was stabbed in the eye,” Holmes carried on, pointing at the empty socket. “But not by a knife. Looks as if it was done by a kind of roasting spit, but it's to small for that, I'd say.”

“Perhaps a chandelier?” the woman next to him suggested. “One of the large ones that have a thorn in the middle to hold the candle in place.”

“Very likely, Miss Stephrey, it also goes with the indentation here, where the edge of the chandelier might have hit the zygoma. - So I think we may safely establish, that this indeed is a specimen taken from Saint Bartholomew's.”

“Will that help us?” I interjected before the two could get carried away any further.

Holmes looked at me as if he had completely forgotten my presence.

“Yes, of course, it points to someone with access to the said pathological collection, so that already narrows down the number of suspects. So we are looking for a man with some kind of medical training – either a surgeon or more likely an assistant in an operating theatre – or thinking about it, in a dissecting room with the likely initials R. G. W., who has connections to Barts, presumably working there. He is tall, about five foot nine, muscular, but not very nimble, his hair is dark but not quite black and he uses pomade. He turns his right foot inward and he is left-handed. - Watson, do you still keep contact to Stamford?”

“I see him once in a while.”

“Is he still working at Barts?”

“He is in charge of one of the surgical wards there now.”

“Then I suggest you pay him a visit.”

“Why don't you come along as well? He'll be happy to see you, I am sure.” 

“I will have to leave for Winchester, as soon as we have handed this over to the police.”

“You'll come to Winchester with me?” Miss Stephrey asked astonished.

“I thought you still had a case of mass poisoning for me to solve,” Holmes replied with raised eyebrows.

“I have almost forgotten about that,” she sighed. “Yes. It is already later than I had intended to return and I have achieved nothing yet. I have not even been to Scotland Yard.”

“I'll go there before visiting Stanford,” I offered.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” she squeezed my hand in gratitude, then looked at Holmes, offering him her hand also. He took it and an odd expression crossed his face. But before I could recognise it for what it was, it had gone again. I found out some days later.


	3. Meeting Old Acquaintances (Watson)

Chapter 3 – Meeting old acquaintances

 

As I arrived at Scotland Yard, I made my way straight to Inspector Lestrade's office, as Holmes had suggested. I knocked and an annoyed call to enter sounded from within the dingy chamber.

“Doctor Watson! What gives me the honour?” he greeted jovially, changing his attitude. He had been pouring over some tattered old files, the pages yellowed over time and the ink faded.

“What are you working on?” I inquired with interest, pointing at the folders in front of the official.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” he replied. “We have just solved a case that seems to have a connection with another one from 1874 and I have to view the evidence and dig myself through all of this ancient material. So, doubting this is a social call, how may I help you, Doctor?” 

I told him and he listened intently. 

“And she is a reliable witness? This is quite an accusation to make,” he asked when I had finished.

“Very much so. She is also very level headed and there is hardly a person better in that field than she is.” I affirmed.

The official nodded thoughtfully, obviously mulling things over in his head.

“Good, Doctor,” he said after a while, “I will send a man down to Winchester and have him take care of things. If this is true, it needs an official investigation.”

“Yes, that is why I was sent here.”

xxx

I had called at my Alma Mater right after leaving the Inspector, but Stamford was busy with a patient who suffered from an infected and putrid bedsore. I left him a note with the request of meeting me at the Albion Inn. And there I waited for more than three hours. But at last, he turned up. He still had the same friendly and good-humoured face, perhaps a bit more serious in expression, but all together trustworthy and likeable. 

“Watson, it has been too long!” he greeted me with a delighted expression.

“I dare think that you owe me a pint for your introduction to Sherlock Holmes,” he carried on, after taking his coat off.

“That I most definitely do. It's already on the way,” I laughed, getting up to get the beer. 

“He sends his best anyway,” I carried on, after returning to the table.

“How is he nowadays? It was quite a surprise, when he turned up again, I have to say.”

“It was a shock, I can assure you.”

“No doubt. Is he still the unfathomable man he used to be?”

“A leopard cannot change his spots,” I grinned.

“So how can I help you? I understood from your note that this is not a social call.”

I filled him in on the events of the morning and opening the bandbox that I had taken from Miss Stephrey's house to transport the skull, he looked at it interestedly. 

“Can I take it out?” he asked, after having tried in vain to get a clear picture of the obnoxious thing while inside the box.

“If you are not afraid of causing a stir, be my guest.” 

“Watson, how many people have you ever seen in here that did not belong to the medical profession?”

“Very few,” I admitted. 

“And the few that don't, work at the museum and are surrounded by mummies day in and day out. - Not much difference, is there?”

He carefully took out the skull and placed it onto the table. No one batted an eyelid, as Stamford had predicted.

“So what is it you would like to know, that neither you nor Holmes could not conclude for yourself?”

“Is this one of the hospital's specimen?” I asked him, turning the skull, so he could see the engraved number at its base.

“It is, indeed. 374SBH – would you like to have a look at the register?”

“Yes, I'd appreciate that. But there is more. You would not know a man with the initials R. G. W.?”

He thought about it, silently repeating the letters to himself. But after a while, he shook his head. 

“Yes and no. R. W., several, R. G. one, G. W. a few, but with all three initials? No, I am afraid nothing comes to mind. I can keep my eyes and ears open, and would contact you if something comes to my attention.”

“Please do. I can be reached either at my practice or at 221b Baker Street.”

“Still the same old rooms of legend? But I thought you were married...” his face turned sorrowful.

“I am. Mary had a horrible accident two years back and her health has been declining ever since. It was recommended that for her health it would be best if she was removed from town and placed somewhere in close vicinity to the sea. She currently resides at Torquay, together with her former employer and now good friend Mrs Forester, who has been widowed lately.” 

I tried to put on a brave face, but obviously not as successful as I had thought, as Stamford's gaze grew more and more compassionate. I missed my wife dearly, longed to hold her, be there for her, make everything better, knowing that I could not – no-one could, and even though I had regained my best friend, Holmes was no substitute for the woman I loved so much or for my family. All this I told him, while he just sat there quietly.

“Poor devil!” my opposite remarked as I had finished, asking after a few instances which we spend in silence: “And was it beneficial?”

“Yes, she is recovering her health, but very slowly. And you, are you a married man?” I tried to change the subject to a more cheerful one than my own marriage at the time.

“I am, as a matter of fact, with four excellent children and one on the way.”

“Splendid.”

“Well, let us hope it is not going to be the third set of twins,” he rolled his eyes in mock exasperation before bursting out laughing. 

His amusement was so sincere that I eventually joined in his cheerfulness. 

“You know, Watson, as soon as your wife gets better and is back in town, the two of you must come and spend an evening with us.”

I thanked him for the invitation.

“Oh, and bring Holmes along as well. I take it Holmes has not yet managed to tie a woman to him?”

“I think the problem lies in the other way around. - A woman has not yet managed to tie Holmes to her,” I remarked smirking. “You know how he is, he is a bit too much head and too little heart.”

My opposite nodded in agreement. But as I sat there it occurred to me, that that was not quite true. Holmes had a great heart, I have seen it on occasion, it was just that he never left it unguarded long enough for people to see it clearly.

xxx

Due to the delay, it had now gotten too late, to view the gruesome collection, but Stamford and I had made an appointment for the following day, and so there I was, walking once more along the familiar corridors, which had changed little since I had studied there.

The said collection though had been added since and was housed in one of the vault-like cellars, close to the morgue and the two minor dissecting rooms, not open to the public. The ones, where those autopsies took part that had the more illustrious dead – meaning practically everyone who did not live on the streets. These rooms were a far cry from the large teaching theatres, too small even, to give access to more than five students at a time. The collection had been a direct consequence, to this close proximity to death.

“Here it is.” Stamford opened the door to a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was still more than half empty but seemed to fill up rather more rapidly than was desirable. Several shelves already sported either brown cardboard boxes of varying size or formaldehyde-filled jars of equally varying contents. - From a severed ear to a crippled hand, down to the preserved kidney of Catherine Eddowes.

The register was a large leather bound book displayed on a high desk, giving the designated number, name of the victim – if known, details to the person such as date of birth and death, cause of death, height, weight and so forth also as far as they where known, as well as a description of the exhibit, each on a half sheet of paper. 

There the number was I was looking for, giving the name of the skull as a Jack Horner. Reading over the page I remarked:

“Someone must have had a weird sense of humour.”

“Depends on if he was little,” Stamford grinned, picking up on the name also.

“They gave his height at four foot five, twenty-six years of age, stabbed in the eye. - Do you happen to know with what?” 

“I have never seen this thing before you showed it to me. I am generally too busy with the living to care much for the dead.”

“Ah, there is a note on the margin, giving the number of the court files.”

I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the case-file number.

“Is it of any relevance for your case? I mean to know what killed this guy?”

“Probably not. It just interests me, that is all,” I answered, thinking about the theory that Holmes and the young lady doctor had built.

“You know, Holmes did rub off on you.”

“I still would not go as far as beating a body with a stick to see if it bruises after death. - Even though I have to admit, that the exact knowledge has come in handy several times.”

“And, do corpses bruise?”

“No.”

At that moment a heavy man, walking with the aid of a crutch, came in. He looked at us suspiciously.

“What do you want down here? What is your business here?” he barked.

“Same business as yours, I reckon.” my companion retorted, obviously used to the unruly attitude of the fellow.

“It is not for spectators, only for medical folk.”

“You know me, at least by sight and may I introduce Doctor Watson to you.”

The man huffed, the look of suspicion not ceding. 

“Are you in pain?” I asked, pointing at the bandage around his right ankle.

“Sprained it. I'll get around. You mind your own business, Sir.”

He limped away again, twisting his foot into a relieving posture.

“Do you know who he is?” I inquired.

“Yes, his name is White or Wright or something along those lines. He is never very sociable.”

“Does he work as an assistant of some sorts?”

“His main task is taking care of the conservation, preparation and cleaning.”

“What kind of conservation?”

“Putting body parts into formaldehyde or alcohol, making sure all orifices and cavities are properly filled.”

“Ah, the nice jobs, hey?”

Stamford grimaced, closing the register and turning down the light again.

“Wait, could I just take a look at the original box?” I stopped him, stepping up to the designated shelf, finding the one in question without any difficulty. 

The carton looked completely inconspicuous and not at all tampered with – with the exception that it was lacking its contents.

“Anything interesting to see?” my friend asked in a bemused voice.

“No.”

I bid my goodbyes and made my way back towards daylight. 

“Oh, and don't forget your invitation.” my former dresser reminded me.

As I rounded the corner, I once again was confronted with the rough and ready hospital assistant. He was all engulfed in his task of writing down some information on a blackboard. I greeted him, but he did not take any notice of me whatsoever. 

There was something odd about the man, as he stood there tall and erect and yet weirdly infirm, with his limp, a shawl around his shoulders and a beaten bowler hat covering his sallow-skinned head. He certainly was not a healthy man. Then again, it was a cold and dingy place down here – which was convenient for its purpose, but not the people working there. - Perhaps it was just that. A man walking around with a hat indoors that gave the impression of oddity.


	4. Arriving at Winchester (Harriet)

Chapter 4 – Arriving at Winchester

 

As I have stayed behind in London, some parts of the now following account were written by the lady herself, who was kind enough to contribute her notes and those of her husband to complete this most remarkable of tales. The parts of the account written by her will be marked, to allow an easier understanding. - Doctor J. H. Watson

 

We left as soon as I had packed my things together and Mr Holmes had taken care of the windows, securing them so no-one would be able to open them again as easy as had been done the night before. He did so by simply blocking the latches with nails, so they could not be pushed aside with a knife blade any more. Rather unceremoniously he hammered them into the wooden window sills, driving the unnecessary long nails in with surprising force. I have to admit, I was a bit sceptical at this measure, appreciating windows that could let in air if wanted or needed and it indeed proofed to be not quite as simple as originally thought, to pull out the nails again – but that is another story altogether. 

We stopped briskly at Baker Street, so the detective could gather his things together and dispatch a telegram to my brother, that I was found and well and not the child's mother, giving the letter I had previously written to Imogen as means of explanation. And so, soon we were on our way to the old English capital. 

Mrs Hudson, on our way out, pressed a basket into my hands.

“There, you'll need something decent to eat to get your strength up. - That man will be challenging to anybody's nerves.”

I thanked her, wondering what was in store for me, with Sherlock Holmes. 

It was a silent journey, him reading the papers and I busying myself with some needlework. Anyone looking in on us would never guess the weirdness of our meeting, the shortness of our acquaintance or the tragedy of our mission. 

xxx

When we finally arrived at Winchester it was already getting dark, as the clouds had closed and a light but constant drizzle rained down on us. Only stopping shortly to drop our luggage off at the inn, where fortunately we where able to secure another room for my companion, we made our way to the small hospital – so very central and only a stones throw away from the busy main roads of the city and yet a lifetime away from the wealth and the elegance of the richer population living on the other side of the high street. The neighbourhood was slightly less shabby though than I was accustomed to and the people had a more rural way of living, with flocks of livestock kept in the shabby shacks behind each tiny cottage or in pens at the back of the kitchen. The stench of humans and animals living in such close vicinity was almost unbearable in the summer, but now, with the approaching winter the smell was mellowed down and the warmth of living in such closeness was a welcome convenience for people who otherwise would need to pay a considerable amount of their meagre income on coal, which now could be only used for the cooking and laundry and that was done sparsely at that.

Mr Holmes was carefully taking in his surroundings, walking beside me. I could almost feel the curious glances of the passers-by, who had become accustomed to me during the two days that I had spent among them, many of them worrying over their sick child putting all their trust in me. I hoped dearly I would not disappoint them. At that moment the immensity of my suspicion struck me. If those children where poisoned, it was on a scale that was horrific. Was it an insane attempt of some lunatic to rid the world of poverty? A religious fanatic wanting to save them in a screwed up manner? Or was it just for the thrill of getting away with murder? Whatever it was, it made me livid. At the thought, I could feel my whole body tense and tears welled up in my eyes that got very hard to retain, but I managed. It would not do any good to show weakness now. But my companion, used to observing people closely, must have picked up on my emotions nonetheless as he gave me a sideways glance of worry.

We arrived at our destination after about a ten-minute walk. The place was still busy, people coming and going. As we climbed the three steps to the main entrance, the door swung open and Dr Hayward accompanied a mother and her young infant, handing her something, wrapped in paper, which she gratefully took. 

“Dr Stephens!” he greeted me, looking surprised to see me. “And?” he looked at the man at my side.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced himself, taking the other man's outstretched hand, closely watching the doctors impression.

“The detective?” Hayward asked, a sceptical look on his handsome face.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Don't you think you are going a bit too far, Doctor?” Hayward had disagreed with me from the moment he had set foot over the threshold of the hospital, which was only shortly after my own arrival there, the day before yesterday. 

His usual place of work was a private practice in the best part of town and only his wife had made him close it for the week and help out at a place so very far from his own social status as could possibly be. He managed to be polite and friendly to the patients and their relatives, but behind their backs, he talked about them in a bad manner, that revealed that he was less of the gentleman he thought himself to be. His wife helped likewise, rolling up her sleeves and covering her dresses with an apron as did everyone else and I liked her a great deal better than her pompous husband. Other than him, she enjoyed doing good and was not the least afraid of getting her hands dirty. On most days she was making her round through the slum, handing out any donations that wealthy women are so industrious to produce. - Goods that usually left me wondering, why anyone would think, that a baby's most essential need was an embroidered nappy with lace edging – after all they all ended up with the same contents than the plain ones. - With the difference that the less frilly cloths were more practical to an in all likeliness already overworked mother, with no frilling iron at hand and a wash-tub she shared with half the street. I am aware, that these are well-meant gifts and I also know that they are greatly appreciated. But for the amount of money and work going into such a decorated piece, ten plain ones could have been made. 

“No, I am not going too far, Doctor Hayward. And I had thought I had given the order, that no child was to be released.” I retorted, with perhaps a more touchy undertone than I intended.

He shrugged his shoulders, an exasperated sneer on his face. He then turned to look at Sherlock Holmes with an impression that clearly displayed his opinion of me. He raised an eyebrow as if to say. “Women – what can you expect?” But Holmes just smiled sweetly, looking at his opposite intently, not saying anything. I could see Hayward getting uncomfortable under the intense stare, till he just turned around to walk back into the house. He almost slammed the door in our faces.

“Who is he?” 

“His name is Hayward, he is a doctor here in Winchester, but not working for the hospital. His wife does a lot of charity work and has pestered him to help.”

“Hayward? The name sounds familiar.” Holmes mumbled. 

We had by now entered the anteroom, which was well lit and comfortably warm and hence always busy with people needing a quick warm up. It was inconvenient, but I rarely had the heart to throw them out, if they left again after a short while. 

“Rhea, is everything all right?” I saw the woman sit in the far corner, crying, looking almost like a child with her small and slender frame and her rich and lovely red hair.

“Little Teddy is dead, also.” she sobbed. “You remember how well he looked yesterday, so Alastair released him last night and this morning he was found dead in his cradle.”

“Oh, that is horrible!” I cried out, stepping towards her and hugging her. At the same time livid. How dare that man! She sobbed into my shoulder for a moment longer, before recovering. “But Doctor, we need to carry on. I fear Alastair has released three children today to make room for another six who carry the same symptoms. We are running out of space. One little girl is very poorly and I think you should have a look at her right now. Alastair is quite at a loss.”

“Who is Alastair?” Holmes whispered into my ear, as we walked down the corridor and into one of the wards.

“Doctor Hayward,” I whispered back, “She is his wife.”

He looked at her with sudden interest.

xxx

The little girl in question was breathing heavily, fighting for each breath. No pudgy little hands that reached for something or kicking of the tiny feet – she was too weak for that. I picked her up and held her upright so her lungs had a chance of expanding with less labour.

“How old is she?” I asked, cradling her tiny body in my arms, rocking back and forth to calm her down a bit. It worked, her eyes drooped a bit and she dozed off.

“She is ten weeks old, Madam,” the mother answered, who was sitting beside the crib, looking as ill as her child.

“When did the symptoms start?” I wanted to know from the young woman, who could not be much older than twenty.

“This morning. I fed her milk in the morning and then left her with my mother to go to work. I work at the laundry down Stockbridge Road. It was about an hour later, that my littlest brother came running to fetch me as Megan had gotten severely ill. I asked for leave, which I did not get, but I left anyway and hurried home and there she was all grey and breathing heavily, not making a whimper or squeal. I brought her here right away, but the Doctor did not know what to do either.” tears now shone in her eyes. “Can you help her please, Madam?”

“Are you well, yourself?” I asked her. She shook her head.

“I am sick with worry. She is all I have left from my dear Peter. He drowned in the canal four months ago, while repairing the weir. Got stuck under a dislocated beam. He never knew her.” she sobbed silently.

“I am truly sorry. But you must rest a bit or else you will not be able to help your daughter in any way. Go home and sleep a while. I will call you if something happens for better or worse.”

She did not want to leave, but as Holmes reached out his hand to help her up, she complied to her fate and walked home.

“By God, I hope she sees her daughter alive again,” I whispered, still holding the tiny baby that had now fallen asleep. The breathing was still laboured, but the tactics to hold her upright seemed to work. Just that I could of course not stand here all night long holding a child. But what to do? I finally got the idea of sending Rhea to bring over the escritoire from the doctors' office. It was one of these old-fashioned things that had a variable angle to it, depending if the user wanted to write or read. I handed the baby over to a startled Sherlock Holmes and pushed the mattress of the crib aside, before placing the bureau into it and then covering it with the thin mattress. A small smile played on Holmes' lips, as he carefully put the baby back into its bed, while I made sure, the little one could not slide down the slope by loosely swaddling her tying the corners of the blanket to a bandage and tying that in turn around and behind the mattress. It worked. At least for the moment.

Two hours later I had examined all my tiny patients. Some looking slightly better already, others still struggling. The latter ones I had carefully spoon fed some ground and dissolved active coal, to counteract the effects of the poison. Something I had resorted to, as soon as my suspicions had been roused. It seemed to work. The children's recovery was more speedy than before, as the poison was bound and flushed out of the system. 

Last, before retreating to the office was little Megan again. She was now sleeping calmly and her complexion had a less greyish hue to it than it had had when I first had seen her. 

“Will she be all right, do you think?” Holmes asked, his face unreadable. He had walked around with me, taking in every detail, observing, making mental notes.

“I do not know,” I confessed. “But I hope so. And what did you observe?”

“Apart from one very irate doctor and one very committed and capable one, not much.”

“I wonder who is who.” I sighed. He just chuckled.

“Any clue which poison it might be?” Holmes asked after a moment of silence.

“I think it might be something as profane as arsenic. There are not many studies, how it works in a body this small. And before you ask, I also have no idea how the poison is applied.”

xxx

“I think we should return to the hotel, Miss Stephrey – or what would you actually like to be called?”

“Miss Stephrey is just fine. But I cannot leave, there is so much to do and I was absent for longer than I had planned. I cannot go. Not already.”

“May I remind you, that you have suffered a severe shock this morning? That you are on your feet since six and that it is now well past ten?”

“I'll be all right.” I knew he was right. But I felt an obligation to stay and oversee my patients.

“No, you will not!” he insisted. I got up in defiance. I had never liked being ordered, but at the same time, I was too tired to argue at any rate. At last, I rang for the night nurse and told her to call me if anything went for the worse. It was not, that I had given in to Holmes, but I had given in to my blurry vision and lightheadedness that told me he had a point.

xxx

Reaching the small hotel, we rang for the porter to hand us our keys. Yawning he reached behind him, giving me mine.

“We have brought up your luggage, Sir – Madam,” he informed us.

“I also require my key,” Holmes pointed out. The porter, different from the one we had spoken to earlier and yet unknown to me, stared at him in astonishment.

“But are you not sharing your room with your wife?”

“I would most certainly share with my wife if I had one,” he replied.

The man looked puzzled at first, but then, as if remembering something, he bent over the counter slightly, whispering something in Holmes' ear, in a conspirational fashion, I could not make out. The detective seemed perplexed.

“Excuse me?” he retorted angrily after a few instances that the information seemingly had needed to sink in. “I came in earlier, taking a single room and left my luggage to be brought up to that room, what was there to misunderstand?”

“Well, Sir, we know a gentleman and his lady-friend, when we see them together,” the porter winked in my direction. “Pratt I reckon wanted to save you the trouble of needing to scurry across the corridor in the middle of the night.”

Both of us stared at the man aghast, the either avoiding to look at the other.

“But we explicitly told him,” Holmes insisted a light tint of colour to his pale cheeks.

“And I have stayed here for two days, did I ever strike you as a woman who would do such a thing?”

 

“Not as you are standing here in front of me, Madam,” the man admitted, “But then again, I have never met you before, as you had your key on you. But Pratt told me, that you told him you were a doctor and that he is certain, that you would not care much about convention...” he trailed off.

I was about to give the man a piece of my mind, but my companion held me back, which of course was a wise thing considering that none of this had been his fault.

“To resolve this awkward situation, I suggest you get my baggage out of the ladies room and designate another one to me. That should do the trick, shouldn't it?”

“But sir, there are no more rooms available.” the Porter mumbled contritely.

I stared at the man in disbelief.

“But since I arrived here, there were hardly any guests in the house and last night when I left, only three rooms were taken.”

I looked at the key hooks behind the man and counted fifteen rooms, with eleven keys still in their place. Holmes had also seen the keys and pointed out the fact.

“I know, but we are expecting a large family party that'll stay for the whole week – some kind of birthday, as far as Pratt understood the man paying for the rooms. They'll be in early tomorrow morning, some maybe even tonight, we cannot be sure of that, as the said gentleman was not very clear on that point and at any rate, the rooms have been paid for and are prepared and we cannot designate any of them to somebody else.”

By now he had become serious, seeing that the situation had been completely misinterpreted by his colleague. He looked apologetically at us, trying to figure out, what could be done to help our situation.

“I can only offer, to send the footman to another Inn and get you a room there, while you wait in the lobby. Apart from that, there is really nothing I can do, I am afraid.”

Holmes hesitated.

“Would you be all right on your own?” he asked me in a quiet tone.

“Of course. Why would I not be?”

“Because there is still someone out there, trying to intimidate you, possibly even hurt you.” was the reply. “ I am not very comfortable, leaving you on your own. How can I face your brother, if something would happen to you, while under my care and protection? Something that I could have prevented?”

“I will be fine,” I assured him hoping his fears where exaggerated.

“Then send the footman.”


	5. One step closer to the solution? (Watson)

Chapter 5 – One step closer to the solution?

 

I had returned to my practice after the meeting with Stamford. Doctor Verner was sitting in his consulting room, reading through a report, from which he looked up smiling, as I entered.

“How are you?” he asked offering me the chair opposite his own.

“Well, I suppose,” I answered with a sigh. There was something nagging at the back of my mind, and I could not shake the feeling, that I had overlooked something.

“What are you and Holmes working on currently?” the young man asked curiously, looking at me through his glasses with his intelligent grey eyes, that were not unlike his cousins. I could see that his interest in the case was sincere and so I told him. 

Having repeated all the details, my uneasiness grew. Did perhaps the cause of death of Jack Horner have something to do with Dr Stephens after all? Why had his skull been chosen? Was there a particular reason apart from its accessibility? Holmes, of course, would know, which lead to follow and which one to leave. How, after so many adventures with my friend, was I not able to recognise what was important and what irrelevant?

Once more I missed my Mary, who always had taken the part of devil's advocate whenever a situation like this had arisen. And more often than not, was it her sound reasoning, which had led me back onto the right track.

“You know, I will be all right without you. The weather is mild enough for this time of year for people not to catch a cold. Why don't you go and have a look at the court files?” 

“You think I should?” I felt bad for leaving Verner on his own once more. I had taken him in on Holmes' suggestion when the practice had become so busy, that it was hard to cope on my own. 

“I think you should.” he agreed. “And by the way, next spring I will leave you for six weeks, as you may remember.”

I did. He was getting married in April and wanted to show his bride the continent afterwards, during their one and a half months long honeymoon. 

“So, I will have to make up for that time,” he stated simply, but with a happy smile on his open face. “Go and have a look at the files and if nothing comes round, you at least have the comfort of knowing, that you have done all you could.”

“You are right, of course.” I sighed, getting back up onto my feet.

“And Doctor Stephens really is a woman?,” he asked curiously, “Is she pretty?”

I waved my finger in mock sternness. “You have made your choice, Geoffrey.”

“I know, and Agnes is the best of women and the most beautiful, and I am very sure, I could never love another woman as much as I love her, but I am still intrigued whether Doctor Stephens is not just intelligent but also pretty.”

“She is very pretty. Actually, she is striking.” 

I recalled the tall and graceful woman I had met yesterday - neither too thin nor too voluptuous, but perfectly feminine, with her lively eyes, sparkling with intelligence and her pretty features as a whole. It was not, that anyone would call her a beauty in the fashionable sense; her attire was too plain, her face had a rather too healthy glow, with a few freckles here and there and her manners, though pleasing, where not meant to engage others, but spoke of unabashed openness, intelligence and boldness. It was rather the combination of all of these assets, that made her stand out from the crowd nonetheless. 

“Does she pose a danger to Holmes' bachelorhood? - You know, intelligent, level-headed, courageous, strikingly pretty...”

Like many men in his situation, he could not imagine, that a man could be perfectly happy without a wife by his side. Had it been for Geoffrey Verner, all world was to share in his happiness. 

Laughing, I shook my head at the absurdity of his question. “Well, you know him, he is not easily caught. When he is on a case, there is nothing, that detains him and afterwards he hardly ever keeps in touch with his clients. So what are the odds?”

“Too bad at any rate, that I would put any money on it.” he now chuckled himself.

xxx

Taking a hansom to the Old Bailey I ascended the steps of this patriarchal building. I asked the watchman for access to the files, earning an exasperated look from the man, that was short of being impolite. I chose to ignore his attitude. 

“I'll get them for you. Just sit there till I return.” he finally agreed in a tone of exasperation, turning around on his heel and heading slowly towards a heavy door on the opposite wall from the one I had just entered through.

The chair offered to me must once have been some kind of torture device, handy perhaps in a court of law in medieval times, but not fit for visitors to sit on, waiting. Though I was fortunate enough to only wait for ten minutes. The clerk returned with a thin folder that he handed over to me in a way that gave the impression it was something of immense value instead of a plain collection of bundled up papers, pointing to a door on the other side of the corridor.

“That is our reading room,” he drawled. “I must inform you, that you cannot take any part of the file out of the building. When you have finished, you must hand it back to me promptly. Is that understood, Sir?”

Feeling as if I must appear like some fool, unable to understand the plainest of instructions, I nodded. Entering through a massive set of double doors I walked into the reading room and seemingly entered into another world. A world of forced silence and the dusty smell of leather-bound volumes decades old. There where two other men in the room, both wearing their robes and wigs, showing them to be barristers. One looked up, as I entered and nodded in acknowledgement of my presence, before returning to glance back at the book in front of him, almost immediately. Sitting down at one of the massive oak tables with the chairs only slightly more comfortable than the one I had just vacated, I began reading through the sparse report.

There was nothing in the whole of the file that connected the two cases – apart from the fact, that Harriet Stephrey had made the right assumptions when she suggested a chandelier as the murder weapon. He had indeed been killed during a squabble over some booty with a fellow thief after a burglary and the very chandelier, made from solid silver, they had just stolen, and over which they then had rowed, sealed his fate and killed him, when his opponent flung it at him and hit his eye. That at least had happened according to that man's statement. As a matter of fact, the body had been found several years after the incident, in the shape of a skeleton underneath his murderer's floorboards – with the chandelier still stuck in his eye socket, from where the man had not been able to pull it out again afterwards. But there was little reason to doubt the accuracy of the statement as the man had already been convicted of another crime and at the time awaited his hanging. The chandelier had to be returned eventually to its original owner, but the head of the man stabbed with it, was put into a box and was docketed at the Criminal Pathological Collection at Saint Bartholomew Hospital in London.

I sighed. The whole day had been lost on a wild goose chase, only because I had the feeling of overlooking something.

Annoyed with myself, I stuck the papers back into the file when at last something did catch my eye. There underneath the coroner's report, as was customary, all witnesses of the autopsy – well viewing in this case, had to sign. And there was one name, that caught my eye: Robert Gerald Wright. - R. G. W. - there he was! 

My spirits rose with the discovery and I decided to walk back to Saint Bart's and look for the man. 

Well, he had struck me as odd. Odd indeed!

xxx

I found him in his usual habitat, down in the cellars, within the reach of death and decay.

“You again!” he huffed, as I walked towards him. “Did I not tell you this morning, that this place is for medical folk only?”

“You did, and were you not also told, that I am a doctor, Mr Wright? – That is your name, is it not?” I replied calmly but with an undertone that was unmistakeably authoritarian. 

“What business of yours is it?” he huffed.

“None, so far, but it might as well become my business.” I looked at him closely now, as close as I presumably should have looked at him the first time around, when his bad state of health had fooled me into believing that he could not possibly be the suspect I was looking for. I had also imagined somebody very much younger than this man.

His still bandaged foot was held at an awkward angle, more so as would be normal to simply relieve pain. He was tall and muscular, for his age of around fifty, but at the same time weirdly out of shape, like a deflated balloon. His hair I could not see due to his hat, but his eyebrows where of a dark colour and his hair in all likeliness was of a fairly similar shade. Looking back, I realised what it had been, that had struck me as being plain wrong about that man, but that at the time had not come to mind: different from most people – even the left-handed ones – he had used his left hand when writing on the blackboard, where I had left him earlier today. I recalled Holmes' description of the man and it did fit this fellow to a T.

He made to walk past me, but I stepped in his path. Wright glared at me menacingly. 

“Why so jumpy, Mr Wright?” I inquired nonchalantly.

“I have to carry on with my duties, Sir.” he hissed. “Us working folk cannot afford to hang around idly, as some can.”

Like a piece of cattle on its way to the butcher shop, he seemed to smell the impending danger to his person, getting stubborn and defiant and perilous to handle. I could see the sweat accumulate on his forehead, despite the coolness of our surroundings, his eyes darting around, searching for a means of escape. Taking out a bright red handkerchief, he pushed his hat up, to wipe his brow. I could see at last a greasy looking strand of dark brown hair underneath the stained felt item. 

“You do not coincidently miss one of your handkerchiefs, do you?” I asked, taking out the one, we had found with the puppet. His eyes widened in recognition.

“Where did you find it? I have lost it the other day.” he stammered unconvincingly, trying to take it from me.

“Oh, so you have lost it, have you? Where would that have been then?”

“I have lost it, if I knew where, it would not have been lost.” he retorted, desperation in his voice. He was as pathetic a villain as I had ever seen...

“It was found inside a house in Chiswick. Together with a skull, that belongs to the collection you are guarding so carefully,” I told him in a voice, unmistakeably showing him I was not impressed by him thus far.

He now looked ready to faint, but was still as defiant as ever, though the sweat was now running down his temples in faint lines of sticky wetness.

“Do you know, what I think of a man who breaks into the house of a lady to intimidate her? I think he is a sorry excuse of a sod. Pathetic, that is, what I think him to be.” I thundered angrily.

The man stared at me and I stared back at him. After a while, he lowered his gaze in apparent shame.

“Please, Sir, I did nothing wrong. It was all just a joke nothing more.”

“You call it a joke, climbing into the house of a single lady, taking one of her dresses, putting it onto a dress form with a skull attached to it, and then hang it in said ladies hallway to scare the living daylight out of that young woman?”

He looked rather sheepish, as he stared down onto the floor.

“I was told it was a doctor living there and that I should dress the doll in some clothing of his, telling me to have a look around the house to find something suitable for the purpose. - Which I did. Had I known that a woman lived there by herself, I would never have...”

“Never have done what?” I dug deeper.

“I would never have gone so far. I did, what I was told in the best of beliefs.”

“Best of beliefs?!” I was incredulous. How dare a man stand there and talk about the best of his beliefs under circumstances such as this?

“How exactly did you manage to hang that thing up and where did you get the dress form anyway?” 

“The dress form is my wife's, she makes her own clothes, you know. I took it, because it was what I could find on such short notice. She has already given me hell over it. Wanting it back, she does.”

“Your wife knows about this?” I was incredulous.

“Not exactly,” he admitted begrudgingly, “she knows I have taken it, that is all. Told her it was for a bet. The wig is also hers. Used to wear it, when she went out to earn a bit of extra money.”

“And then you came here to pick up the skull?”

“Yes. When I had inquired about the particulars, I had been suggested to take anything I could lay my hands on, if need be a corpse from the morgue – I am not sure he was serious on that, but at any rate, I could not possibly do that without raising suspicion. And how was I to get a corpse to Chiswick anyway? I remembered the dress stand and sawing off its mount, I packed it into a duffel bag, my brother in law used to carry with him to sea. The skull, the dummy had lost its head a while ago, I could easily put into a hat box and no-one would be any the wiser, what I was carrying around with me. A dead body, on the other hand, would have been so much less handy and more heavy at that. The dead are not easy to move around when there is still flesh on them.”

I was speechless at this confession.

“How did you get into the house?” I asked, even though I knew, but wanted to ascertain the accuracy of Holmes' deduction.

“I pushed the window ledge aside with my penknife and opened it quite easy. The windows of that house are in good nick, they did not even make the slightest sound.”

“And the dress?”

“I had nothing to dress that thing in, if I had I would have used that to save me the trouble of fiddling around with that thing in the darkness and also I did not like the idea of snooping around in another man's home any more than was absolutely necessary. But after all, I had to and so I carefully made my way upstairs in the hopes of finding something suitable. The first room I looked into was empty apart from the furniture and looked like a guest room. The second time I was lucky. I found myself in the dressing room. You cannot imagine, what a fright I got, when I realised, that someone was in the house! I had been left under the impression, that the house was empty and that the doctor living there would only return the next day and then walk into his house, finding my night's work. I grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on – the dress hanging right next to the door and walked back downstairs, had it been a dressing gown or nightshirt, I would have taken that likewise, I presume, but it was a pretty dress, my Annie would have liked it. But it had so many blasted buttons on it, I thought I would never finish with it, fiddling around to close them in the gloom of the street lamp. I was so afraid the chap would wake up. But I managed to get the dress onto the torso and attach the skull to it, without making much noise. I was lucky there because it already had that metal thing sticking out, where the dolls head once had been attached. I then slung the noose around its neck and tried to pull it up, but when I did so the rope slipped upward, dislocating the skull again and the whole thing slid to the floor, the head rolling around like a bowling ball. It gave me a right scare, I tell you. I then attached the noose to the body with a few stitches, to keep it in place, which was hard to do as my hands shook so much. - I was mighty glad I always carry needle and threat with me.”

“Why?”

“My clothes are old and I want to be able to re-attach my buttons or darn the holes. I might be poor, but I like to keep up a certain amount of dignity.” As he stood there in all the glory of his scabbiness, this statement was a rather questionable one.

“Did you bring a step ladder with you?” I asked, remembering that Holmes and I had had trouble reaching the rope to cut it.

“No, I stacked three chairs on top of one another. - That is how I sprained my ankle in the end. When I climbed back down, I slipped and slid off the lowest of them. Had it been the uppermost, I think the lady would have had an even greater scare.”

A sheepish grin spread across his face, but before it had manifested itself, it was already gone again.

“How did you know it was me?” he finally whispered.

“I had a very accurate description of you – and of course your handkerchief. - Which conveniently had your initials embroidered. And let's not forget, the skull has the catalogue number etched into it at its base.”

“I knew, nothing good would come out of it, from the start.” Wright sighed.

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because I owed a favour to someone.”

“You owed a favour?!” I was aghast. “And you never questioned your actions? Not even, when you stepped into the ladies dressing room to take her dress? Her sleeping only yards away from where you stood? What is your connection with Miss Stephrey?”

“It was more of a life's debt, but I would prefer it, Sir, if you would just hand me over to the police now. I am responsible for hanging that thing up, but to say any more, would be more than my life's worth.”

“I will hand you over to the police, but they will have their questions answered, too.” 

xxx

We stepped outside and into the darkness of an early autumn evening and while I hailed a cab, not once did he try to run. In only a few moments he had become as demure as a little lamb. 

“The lady is all right, I hope?” Wright hesitantly inquired as a cab came to a halt next to us.

“She is now,” I replied. “But she was in a terrible state of distress. - You are aware, that if you told the whole story, and name the person, who abated you, you could get away with as little as a fine or a week or two in detention.”

Knowing that having caught Wright, was only the first step to solving the mystery, I dug deeper. But he was unwilling to communicate any further. He just shook his head, looking down all the while.

“What would your wife say if you went to prison for some years? You know the crime you committed was a despicable one.” I had no idea, for what he would get charged and how severe the punishment would be, but chances were, neither did he. I plead and prodded, but to no avail.

“It is for my wife, I do not tell the all. I do not care whether I swing on the gallows or not, but my dearest Annie I cannot leave in danger. And danger she would be in, if I told you everything.”

“Why would you hang for burglary?” I was puzzled now. But he kept his mouth shut and his eyes averted, looking out on the ever darkening city. Just as we reached the police station and we were about to climb out he spoke:

“You are a man of honour, Doctor, for the sake of my Annie, could you go and tell her my whereabouts? And that I love her. I never said that enough and now, I perhaps will never do so again.”

xxx

I did as I had been asked, not bringing it over me to deny his request, thinking of the forlorn woman waiting for her husband to return from work and never arriving. I paid her but a brief visit though and reduced her to tears of woe and sorrow by my news. A most pitiable sight as she seemed to have no one in the world but her husband to care for her. 

I made my way to the next telegraph office to send a message to my friend, perfectly satisfied with my days work, but not with its outcome. My part of the case was thus solved.


	6. A displeased husband (Watson)

Chapter 6 – A displeased husband

 

It was over breakfast, that I received a telegram from my friend, that he would be in London that day and return to Winchester again in the evening, with the information that he would meet me at the practice shortly after eleven. I made my way to Kensington where I arrived together with my colleague and several patients.

“Looks like it's going to be a fairly busy morning,” I remarked, counting eight people already, but none of them looking severely ill.

“Busier than the last few at any rate,” Verner agreed. “But then again, it had been extremely quiet and yet, one can never tell, it might just be, that by midday we have either nothing left to do or are extremely busy. Any new developments in the case?”

While taking off our coats and hats, I told him in a few words about Robert Wright and that Holmes was on his way into town to talk to him.

“Ah, see Watson, you were right, something was off and you have solved your case.” he gave me a friendly pat on the back.

I was not quite as optimistic. I had gotten hold of the stooge but was not one step closer to the backer and it irked me greatly. The solution had been within my grasp and still, I had not managed to get hold of it, instead, it had slipped through my fingers and now seemed further away than ever. 

xxx

Holmes stepped into our practice at a quarter past eleven just as we where almost done with our patients. Only two more where waiting still – an old woman with a bandaged hand and a young one fretting over a small boy of about four who seemed to have managed to, from what I had gathered, shove one of his tin soldiers up his nostril and now wanted to have it back.

“Sherlock, how are you?” Verner greeted his relation, ignoring the tantrum the little boy threw, inducing the older woman to give precedence to the mother and child, though with an exasperated side glance at the pair of them.

“Well. Very well actually, Geoffrey. And you?” 

“Really? You look as if you have not slept a wink. But I am also very well, thank you.”

I, knowing that Holmes was in the habit of staying up all night when on a case, was not much surprised at his drawn expression.

“I have basically not slept at all,” Holmes admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. “How is dear Agnes?”

“Oh, she is very well. We are going to see Così fan tutte tonight – together with her brother and sister in law.” Verner rolled his eyes. I knew he was deeply in love with his fiancée, but his affection did not exactly extend to her family. I had met the said brother and had to admit, that he was a very formidable brother in law to be had, a magistrate and landowner from Gloucestershire, whose name I could never remember. 

“The 'school for lovers'? How befitting,” his cousin replied, smirking. “I never had much liking for Mozart, I prefer his contemporaries. His music is too light and profane, but it makes for an excellent evening entertainment no doubt.” 

“Is that what it's supposed to mean? I never knew. How befitting indeed. - Oddly enough, it was my soon to be brother in laws choice. Even though he does not seem to be too keen on having me as his sister's husband, I wonder if he knows the meaning of the title. But he is not very musical at any rate - actually neither am I. Agnes is though. You should hear her playing the piano. But I am afraid I need to get back to work.” he grinned apologetically, walking back into his consulting room, calling in the next patient. The young mother and her still fussing son followed suit. 

I shook my head in amusement, remarking: “He cannot wait to be married. He is so enthusiastic, he wants the whole world to take part in his happiness.”

“I hope it's going to last. - The happiness I mean. Love blinds a man in more than one ways, you know.” Holmes remarked dryly. “But then again, as I understand it, she is a very remarkable young woman, with understanding and patience, so there is no reason to doubt it. Stranger things have happened. - Much stranger things.”

The last sentence was spoken in such a contemplative manner that it caught my attention.

“Stranger things?” I dug deeper as we stepped out onto the busy street.

“Yes, Watson, stranger things.” he lit a cigarette, slowly exhaling the smoke as if he was deciding on something. “Talking about wives, how is yours? Is she getting any better?” he asked after a few instances.

He rarely inquired after Mary, but when he did, his interest was sincere. I knew he was not a sentimental man, and the more I appreciated this occasional display of sympathy, even though sometimes the timing was an unwelcome one, as it was now.

“She is getting better at last. Since Mrs Forester has joined her, she had less time to ponder upon the tragedy of the incident. They have both lost so much...” I broke off, the memory still a painful one. For a moment we stood in silence. 

“Watson, why have you never told me?” Holmes asked quietly, turning towards me and looking me straight in the eye. 

“Told you what?” I all but whispered. I leaned against the door I had just closed behind me, dreading what was to come.

“Why have you never told me you had a son?” Holmes' face was neutral, but his voice, devoid of any accusation, showed the full extent of his compassion.

“I could not. Talking about him feels as if he is dying all over again.”

“He died in the accident that left your wife in a wheelchair, did he not?”

I nodded, unable to utter a word.

“How did you find out?” I asked after a while.

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” he replied deadpan.

Despite the sadness I felt, I gave a dry laugh, wondering how I ever could think to hide this from my friend. 

Flicking away his cigarette butt he added: “The Yard has sent Stanley Hopkins down to Winchester to investigate. His name might ring a bell.”

“I remember him – sandy-haired chap, tall - he was in on the investigation. A sergeant I believe.”

“He is an inspector now, seems promising. I had a pint with him last night. He had helped me out in the morning and I owed him one – and a pint makes many a man quite talkative, keep that in mind, Watson. We talked a little about this and that, mainly about the case and when your name came up he recalled the accident. He has not given up on it, you know?” my friend told me calmly.

“It will not bring Henry back.”

“That was his name?” Holmes asked with surprising gentleness.

“Yes.”

“No, it will not bring him back, but it would give you closure. - And your wife. If you like, I will join Hopkins in his quest.”

I knew Holmes was right, wondering how he of all people had managed to pick up on the emotional side of things. Closure was, what Mary and I needed. He read the answer in my face, before I opened my mouth, taking his outstretched hand.

“As soon as this case is solved, I'll get to it, Watson. And by Jove, I'll find that bastard!”

A few moments later we sat in a cab together, heading towards the police station that held Wright prisoner. I felt oddly relieved after the conversation with Holmes. I had never shared this with anyone and now that I had it off my chest I felt an immense wave of relief wash over me. At this moment I knew it was time to reunite with my wife and start again. Something we had postponed time and time again, dreading the memories we roused in one another, blaming Mary's weak state of health instead, for staying apart. Perhaps I should sell my practice to Verner entirely and find another place and another home, one without all the terrible memories of the past years. 

xxx

“Robert Gerald Wright?” Holmes asked the tall and stout man sitting on the rough wooden prison bed.

“Yes.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He offered his hand to the surprised man.

“Let us talk about that little prank of yours, that you played on my wife. I am aware you have not acted out of your own motivation, and I can assure you that we will refrain from any legal steps towards you if you would give the name of the person you have been working for.”

As Holmes stood there, he looked decidedly like the displeased husband he acted. He was quite intimidating despite the composed behaviour he displayed. Surprised I observed he was even wearing a wedding band, wondering if he really thought that anyone but himself, would ever care for such minute details.

“Your wife? But I thought it was a Miss Stephrey that lived there – the Doctor there,” he pointed towards me, “told me she was a single lady and I, at any rate, was led to believe that it was a man living there, a Doctor. Perhaps you should decide what it is, now? A man, a woman – married or unmarried, a couple?”

“A female doctor publishing under the name of Doctor Reymond Stephens, with the maiden name of Stephrey, who lives there on her own – or rather has done until very recently.”

“Sounds as if I should congratulate you on your wedding then.” the prisoner said sarcastically.

“Thank you,” Holmes answered dryly. “So?” 

“I already told that man,” pointing at me again, “that I will not tell his name. It is more than my life's worth to do so. I cannot do that to my Annie. Would you not do anything to protect your wife from harm also?”

“I would.” Holmes agreed, before continuing, “ And if I promise to catch him before he can get at you?”

“Sir, he will get at me anywhere and anyhow, and if he cannot get hold of me, it will be my loved ones.”

“Has he that much influence?”

“You have no idea, Sir. If I where you, I would not leave my wife out of sight.”

“Oh really? That is why I try to catch him, you know?” my friend replied in an acid tone of voice.

Wright looked at the floor with a shameful face. He kept his mouth shut nonetheless, shaking his head slightly and muttering that he could not say anything for the sake of his own dear Annie. Holmes called for the guard to open the door.

“I'll be back,” he told the prisoner, who still sat there slouched down and broken.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we hurried out of the police station, astonished that Holmes would give up this soon.

“Barts.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to find a connection between him and the person he has been acting for – and that person's connection to Harriet.”

“Harriet...?”

xxx

For the third time in as many days, I entered the oldest hospital in London. Holmes, knowing the way as well as myself walked down one of the endless corridors leading to the hospital's superintendence. He knocked briskly, pushing the door open almost at the same time, not waiting for a response from within.

Several clerks and a few young ladies doing the typewriting sat in the lofty room that at this time of year was bitterly cold and draughty. 

“Yes, please?” one of the workers asked politely.

“I am here to look at some files.”

“I am afraid, you will need to specify that, Sir,” he replied with an amused expression on his face, pointing at the rows of shelves and filing cabinets behind him.

“Of course. First I would like to have a look at the file of one of the hospital's employees – his name is Robert Gerald Wright. With the others, I'll go from there.”

“What do you hope to find in his file?” I asked Holmes as we were offered a table and a set of chairs, decidedly more comfortable, though less elegant looking than the ones at court, while the clerk hurried away to accommodate our request.

“We first need to find out, for how long he has been working here. Then we can narrow down the timespan in which he might have met the other person.”

“You think he has met the instigator here? In the hospital?”

“It is the most likely place. Consider, Watson, where would a man of seemingly vast influence meet a man like Wright? They are not very likely to frequent the same pubs or clubs or events, so a mutual place of work will be the most likely place.”

That sounded reasonable enough.

“Do you really think that the person behind all this is so immensely influential as Wright believes him to be?”

“Yes, Watson, very much so.” my friend replied with emphasis.

Wrights file was short and crisp. He began working at Saint Bartholomew Hospital eight years ago as pallbearer, ascending fast, due to the fact that he showed no sign of shyness when it came to the more gory aspects of his work with the dead and so, after a short period of time was offered the position of dissecting assistant, and gained the responsibility of preserving any specimen wanted for future examination from the students.

Holmes had written down the dates into his notebook, flipping to another page, he crossed out four names.

“Is that your list of suspects?” I inquired,

“Yes. Too many names and too little data, I am afraid. - And on top of that no apparent motive, a dodgy way of dispensing the poison – if Hopkins' and my assumptions are correct, and a young and lovely woman caught in the middle of it all. Watson, you can mark this case down as the one, that has afforded the most drastic measures from me, already. I hope you do not need to write it down as one of the few cases I have not solved, also.”

“Most drastic measures? More drastic than your actions in the Charles Augustus Milverton case?” I chuckled, remembering his outrageous actions several years since.

“Funny you bring up that case. - Yes, actually this time I went one step further.” he replied calmly. The information of this simple sentence did not sink in immediately. Instead, I reached for the linen-bound notebook of his, reading through the list of names.

“Hayward?” I remarked staring at the familiar looking name.

“Yes, the name rings a bell, but I have been wracking my brain where I have heard it lately. It seems I am getting distracted.”

“By a young and lovely woman?” I mocked. “There was a Julian Hayward, Lord so and so, who has died a few weeks ago.”

“How many weeks?” Holmes now sat on the edge of his chair. 

“I cannot remember,” I replied apologetically.

Impatiently Holmes jumped up from his chair, walking toward the clerk again, who had returned to his desk. A few words and the list of names where exchanged and the employee walked into the recesses of the archive once more. My friend walked restlessly around the table, as we waited several minutes for the man to return. He carried six files of varying thickness in his arms. 

“These are the names I could find, Sir,” he told the detective. 

Holmes nodded, taking the stack from him, quickly thumbing through the folders, in the search for dates that coincided with the time of employment of Wright. Only two did after all.

“Hayward as a student changed to here from Saint Pancras a year before Wright began working here and he left after his exam, which was eight months after Wright began his job.” Holmes summed the first one up.

“So he might be the very man?” 

“Possibly, it is just, that I am in the awkward position of finding my two prime suspects have had an equal opportunity of meeting with Mr Robert Wright.”

“Who is the other?”

“Peter Granville.” he slid over the file in question.

“Never heard of the man.”

“You have heard of him, just that his name was never mentioned. – He is the well to do merchant and councilman whose daughter has died and caused the officials to call in Harriet.”

“But Holmes, why would he kill his own daughter?”

“I could give you several reasons, why a parent would kill his own child – it's a frequent occurrence, I am sorry to say. The question is rather, why would he kill all these other children?” Holmes replied. 

“And what was he doing here in the hospital?”

“Tried to study medicine but dropped out of class in the middle of his second semester. - The one, that students are introduced to the dissecting rooms… Look at the snide remark in the margins here.”

Holmes pointed out a small handwritten comment from a fellow student: On the slab, a body reeks, Peter Granville refuge seeks.

“Not much information at all, is it?” 

“No, but it says something about the man himself. He certainly does not strike one as the most likely man to kill several children and threatening young women. But then again, poison is a nice and neat little killer, and he would never even see his victims. Also arsenic is so incredibly easy to obtain. - Flypaper, rat poison, wallpaper, paint, a whole array of possibilities, Watson, and one as inconspicuous as the other.”

“And Alastair Hayward?”

“I have no idea – yet. But I think a little detour to Baker Street and my reliable collection of paper clippings might do its trick in establishing whether Alastair Hayward has something to do with the late Lord, Julian Hayward and if that, in turn, might help us to solve our case.”

We got up to leave, Holmes tipping the clerk generously on our way out.

“With people as complying as him, gathering information is a pleasure,” Holmes remarked.

It was only in the hansom on our way home, that I picked up on my friend's remark from earlier.

“Holmes,” I wondered, “what did you mean by you went one step further this time?”

“Excuse me?” he had been looking out the window distractedly.

“You said this time you went one step further than in the Milverton case when you got engaged to his housemaid for the sole purpose of gathering information. What do you mean by it?”

“What usually follows and engagement?”

“Marriage, of course,” I replied. “But...”

I looked at Sherlock Holmes, my gaze slowly moving from the smirk on his face down to the ring on his left-hand ring finger. I started laughing heartily.

“You almost had me there, Holmes. You where rather convincing as the angry husband with Wright as well, I would have believed it without any hesitation, had I not known your acting skills.”

“I was not acting,” he replied calmly. “I AM a married man as of late. Miss Stephrey and I were married to one another yesterday morning.”

“Good Lord! Holmes, are you out of your mind?!” I cried out, staring at him flabbergasted. 

“No, I am perfectly sane.”

“And Sir Cedric?”

He shrugged his shoulder, grinning: “I might get away with a black eye, I hope.”


	7. A lady's honour (Harriet)

Chapter 7 - A lady's honour

 

“Go to bed.” Sherlock Holmes told me, while we sat, waiting for the footman to return. I was tired to the bone by now, but I was also immensely irritated by the incident. Under these circumstances, it would have been impossible for me to find any rest, despite the exhaustion I felt.

The porter arrived carrying a tea tray to accommodate us for the time being, his whole demeanour begging for our forgiveness. He did not dare speak but only placed the tray onto the small coffee table in front of us, disappearing into the background as silently as he had approached.

“I'll have a cup of tea with you and perhaps a biscuit and by then the footman should be back anyway,” I replied, when the man had gone, stifling a yawn. 

Holmes smiled, shaking his head in amused exasperation. “Do you never give in?”

“Only when it is sensible. Currently, we don't know where you will stay and I might as well be informed about it, just in case I am in need of you.”

“In need of me?” he repeated with his eyebrows raised.

“When there is something going on at the hospital for example. You might need to be present as well and I could not send for you when I am unaware of where you are staying.” I specified.

He looked for a moment as if he wanted to say something to that, but instead, he just bit into a biscuit, munching away silently.

It took the footman more than an hour to return. He looked depleted and vexed, his clothes soaked from a shower of rain. Walking straight over to his colleague, he spoke to him animatedly. The porter's face assumed a helpless expression. He scratched his head a couple of times, shaking it just as often in apparent disbelief and then, pulling himself together, came over to us.

“Sir, Madam – I am afraid, there is not a single room to be had in the whole of Winchester.”

We stared at the man sceptically then looking at each other.

“But that surely is impossible!” Holmes burst out.

“I would have thought so myself, but it seems to be the truth. You can, of course, try for a room yourself, but Christian has been to every inn within walking distance, I can assure you.” 

Sherlock Holmes got to his feet and looked as if he was about to do exactly that, when, with a side glance at me, he apparently thought the better of it. Sighing he looked around the room.

“I could sleep on the sofa in the lobby,” Holmes offered, his eyes fixed on the tiny Chippendale chaise, that was so short that a five-year-old would not have been comfortable sleeping on it.

“I cannot allow that, Sir. Particularly with so many guests about to arrive. The landlord will not like it and I cannot afford to lose my position.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” Holmes reared up, his patience running short.

“You can sleep on the sofa in my room,” I suggested, tired of this farce. “There is a screen so we can retain at least a small amount of privacy.” 

I put down my cup and got up likewise.

“I cannot possibly do that. It might compromise you. We might jeopardise your reputation with such behaviour.”

He was, of course, right, but thinking about my brother not putting it past me to have an illegitimate child or the landlord of this hotel assuming that I was having an affair with the man now standing next to me, I began to doubt, I had a reputation to lose. I said as much.

“Of course you have a reputation to lose,” Holmes told me. “You don't have a child and can prove it. We also have no affair and we can also prove it. Or at least testify to it. - But if I sleep in your room, it will be very hard to convince anyone that we have not been behaving indecently, now or on previous occasions.” 

I could not but agree to this. 

“What do you suggest as an alternative?”

“Staying awake.”

“Don't be silly. You need to sleep just as much as I do to function. - Remember what you have told me two hours ago?”

“Yes, and I stick to it – and yet, I cannot take up on the offer. I cannot do that to you.”

xxx

After another fruitless attempt to find a suitable solution that would be acceptable to all of us, I finally shrugged my shoulders and made my way up to my room. Unlocking the door and turning up the gaslighting I took in my surroundings. The chamber was comfortable but rather gloomy, nothing like my own house – a home that to this day, I had always felt safe and secure in. With the heavy feeling of having lost something of immense value – and of debilitating tiredness I walked over to the large four poster bed, pulling back the covers to reveal a small parcel wrapped in brown packing paper. For a moment or two, I just stared at the unwelcome sight, hoping it was nothing but a freshly laundered night shirt – something that was unlikely, since my shirt lay, neatly folded underneath said item. Apart from that, the parcel was far too small to contain any decent piece of clothing at any rate. With trembling hands, I undid the knot and unwrapped the unwanted and eerie gift. Revealing a hangman's noose tied around a porcelain doll with a cracked head, I stumbled back, turning on my heels and running back down - right into the arms of an astonished and puzzled Sherlock Holmes. I clung to him as if my life depended on it, a repetition of the morning's events replaying in the back of my mind.

“What is it, dear – Miss Stephrey?” he asked, taking my face into his hands and looking me straight in the eye.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, when I had finished my tale, going up himself to have a look at the sinister thing, leaving me as a bundle of nerves, shivering and on the brink of tears.

“I cannot possibly sleep in that room.” I declared when he came back down, still frightened, but almost composed again. And for certain, had it not been for the incident in the morning, I would have taken it as a joke. Or rather a tasteless prank by some rogue for whatever reason. But I could not make so lightly of it now.

“Could you sleep there, when I would come up with you, as you had suggested in the first place?” Holmes asked reluctantly.

“I think so.”

“Good, then I will do so.”

So in the end, we walked upstairs and entered the comfortable room. Sherlock Holmes looking decidedly as uncomfortable as I felt. The room was fairly large, but had an oppressive feel to it, for its dark colour scheme. All the wood was blackened over the centuries and the walls and fabrics were all held in a dark blue, that once must have been spectacular. It was furnished with an old fashioned four poster bed, a wardrobe in the old English style, a set of wingback chairs in front of an elaborately carved fireplace, a washstand that was sectioned off by a plain folding screen, and a settee at the foot end of the bed. 

“What made you change your mind?” I asked, as we placed the settee across the room, pushing it against the wall furthest from the bed and then placing the folding screen in front of it in such a way, that from the bed, I could neither see the sofa nor its occupant.

“The fact, that someone has tried to first lure me away, by making it impossible for me to find a room in close vicinity and second, that this someone once more basically ave you a death threat. It calls for some unexpected action – and I don't think, anyone has expected us, to share the room after all.”

“No, I didn't myself,” I admitted, but glad he was there, all the same.

Taking off my shoes, I climbed into bed, closing the curtains of the fourposter and got changed into my night clothes. I fell asleep almost the moment, my head hit the pillow. The light rustle of Holmes making himself comfortable on the couch giving me a sense of security after the strains of the day, that was soothing and comforting.

xxx

I must have slept extremely sound, not surprising after the adventures of the previous day. A hard banging on the door woke me up, though, but obviously too late, because Holmes, already fully dressed, was at the door before I had any time to react and scramble out of my own bed. He opened it to reveal Rhea Hayward. 

“I am so sorry to disturb you, Sir, but the doctor is required at the hospital. There is a policeman arrived from London, who is snooping around and wants particulars.” I heard her stammer, obviously shocked of finding him there. Drowsily I climbed out of my bed, unaware in my sleepiness that this must make an even worse impression on her, especially since I had forgotten to hang my morning gown within reach and now needed to step out in only my nightdress.

“Doctor, I have just told Mr Holmes, that you are wanted at the hospital.”

“Yes, I have heard that, Rhea.” I yawned, only awakening slowly. “I'll be there in a moment. Have there been any emergencies during the night?” I tried to ignore her accusing glances while putting on my frock. 

“No, everything was quiet, the night nurse told me. Even that little girl has stabilised. She seems to breathe more easily now.”

“Good. I'll hurry.” I promised. Holmes closed the door behind her, leaning heavily against it looking embarrassed.

“I have been thinking about last night.” he began hesitantly.

“And?”

“And I came to the conclusion, that it was not just a threat to you, but also someone’s intention to compromise us or rather you. If he could not scare you away or harm you, he sure could ruin you by making sure, I spend the night in your room.”

“But how could he – whoever he is, know that there will be a family party?”

As I spoke the words, the answer dawned on me: “He didn't, he took them.”

“Exactly! How likely is it, that ALL accommodation in one town – and a fairly large one at that - is taken?”

“Well in Southend in the summer...” 

“We are neither in Southend nor is it summer. I think, after intimidation did not work, whoever was behind it, is now trying to damage your reputation and set you up as a loose woman.”

“But how could he know, you would sleep in my room?”

“Because he made sure of it, by placing that rope and doll, showing he is not to be trifled with. What was I supposed to do then? I could hardly leave you on your own. Of course, I could have stayed in the lobby downstairs, but I have to admit, I preferred not letting you out of my sight. And now I have gotten you into trouble anyway.”

“But who would tell? How is anyone supposed to find out about this?”

“Oh, you can bet he makes sure someone does – and if someone asks Mrs Hayward, or the porter or, the footman, or the landlord, or the maid, they will all testify to its accuracy – that I have spent the night in your room. If Mrs Hayward does not go round telling everybody of her own accord, anyway. It is of little consequence, whether we behaved ourselves or not, all that matters is the appearance of indecent conduct.” Holmes took a deep breath: “Miss Stephrey, we have been successfully set up. I am sorry, I should never have consented to coming up here with you. I should have known that something was afoot. I don't know, what has gotten into me, to be so careless.” 

He looked contrite and angry at himself.

“So, what are we supposed to do now? There is no use in you blaming yourself for this situation. It is not your fault, but whoever is behind this is responsible for our dilemma – last night and this morning. Anyway, it is one thing if my reputation is damaged or destroyed, but it is another, that these children are left unprotected.”

“You should not dismiss your reputation so easily, losing it, might destroy you,” he pointed out.

“I am aware of that.”

Silence fell and we stood there, face to face, looking at each other quite at a loss.

“Will you marry me?” he asked suddenly, his voice uncertain.

“Excuse me?” I thought I had misunderstood him.

“Will you marry me?” he repeated. I looked at him, how he stood there - abashed but withstanding my searching glances. 

He was a handsome man, with his tall and wiry frame, dark hair, the sharp lines of his face, the intelligent eyes, the thin-lipped mouth with the almost inconceivable humorous streak and the prominent nose. I decidedly liked what I saw. But marry this almost stranger? Could I care for him enough to be his wife? Did I want to marry for the sole purpose of saving my honour?

The first two questions I could answer – to my own astonishment - in the affirmative. I liked him, not just his looks, but his straightforwardness and intelligence, the dry sense of humour and the sense of security he gave me. But the latter? No! I had always wanted more than a marriage of convenience, I could have had that several times. I wanted equality and companionship, if not love. But with a man like him, my chances of getting exactly that, where presumably greater than with any other suitor I had ever had or ever would have. Needing an affirmation, I searched his face for the right answer, an answer that began forming already at the bottom of my heart and only now needed encouragement to be voiced.

It was given to me, when, to my astonishment, he hesitantly stepped forward, bend down and kissed me ever so softly. Taking his face into my hands, I kissed him back, surprised by his warmth and gentleness. It felt oddly right to kiss his lips, feel his skin under mine. 

“Yes,” I answered quietly, his face still only inches from mine. I could see a small and relieved smile cross his face

“Good, then I suggest, you get dressed and we step into a registrars office on the way to the hospital.” he had taken a step back again, and the man that had just made love to me was back to his cool and guarded self.

“What? Now?” I gasped. I had of course known that we could not wait for long to tie ourselves to one another, but this was really a bit sudden.

“When else? If we are married they can hardly hold against us, that we are sharing a room. - That we have not been married last night, will then not make much of a difference.”

“Could it not be taken as an affirmation, that we have done something we were not supposed to do?” I asked him.

“Perhaps, but in my experience has the existence of a marriage license made even that a comparatively small folly. It is the woman not wise enough to catch the man she has given herself to, that gives offence.” 

“I say amen to that.”

“If you get yourself ready, I will take care of the preparations and we'll meet in half an hour at the town hall.”

“But I am supposed to go to the hospital directly.” I insisted, remembering Mrs Hayward and that the police was expecting me promptly.

“There is no medical emergency there and the police can wait a moment longer. I'll take your gloves.”

“But...” but Holmes was already out of the door.

I stood there staring at the closed door through which he had just made his exit for a minute or two before I was able to spring into action and proceed to get myself ready. Looking at my face in the mirror it dawned on me, that this would be the last time, that Harriet Stephrey would look back on me – tonight, it would be Harriet Holmes. For some reason, that thought did not disturb me in the slightest. Well, Mrs Hudson was right – one never knew what would be next with this man and he certainly was challenging to ones nerves. I could not help but smile. 

xxx

“And you are sure, you want to be wed now?” the official asked.

He was an elderly man with white hair and a clean-shaven face. His eyes twinkled behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he spoke, his face full of good-humoured kindness. Sitting behind his desk he seemed to be the very man apt to fulfil this job.

“Yes, Sir.” Holmes and I told him in unison.

He looked at us bemused, taking out the necessary forms. 

“Well, I think it a bit sudden, but what have I to say? You seem to know each other well enough and you are certainly old enough to make your own decisions – so, no elopement to Gretna Green is necessary, hey? Witnesses?” he asked chuckling, dipping his pen into the inkwell.

“Yes, one,” Holmes answered.

“Call him in.”

“Mr Hopkins, will you please join us?”

A young man in his late twenties, wearing a brown tweed suit and twisting a likewise coloured bowler hat in his hands, entered the small room, looking curious. He had a pleasant face, with a sandy moustache and ruffled, slightly curling hair of the same light colour. His bright blue eyes shone with intelligence. He offered me his hand in an informal manner and when I took it, his grip was firm. 

“Doctor Stephens, I'm pleased to meet you,” he greeted me, bowing his head slightly.

The man behind the desk looked confused, as did I. Never in my life had I seen this gentleman before. 

“I thought your name is Stephrey? Did I get something wrong?” the registrar piped in.

“No, my name is Stephrey, but I have published a book under the name of Stephens and for convenience practice under the same name,” I explained.

“Ah. Well, then let's proceed with the wedding.” 

If anything he looked more confused than before, but clearly preferred not to inquire any further lest he would get even more surprises. Young Hopkins also looked slightly bewildered, looking from Holmes to myself and back again, before shaking his head, a grin spreading across his comely face.

The actual wedding was done rather unceremoniously. The neither of us required any excessive declarations of undying love, passion or other frills that usually go with this kind of business. Two simple “I dos”, an exchange of rings and the return of my gloves and it was done. And within ten minutes all three of us, were on our way to the hospital, arriving there shortly before ten.

xxx

“I have to apologise, but I am expected by an inspector from Scotland Yard,” I excused myself, as we had reached my destination, turning to leave the two men that had accompanied me, surprised, that Stanley Hopkins had insisted on coming with us.

“That would be me, actually.” that man remarked dryly.

Of course, he was! What had I expected? I turned around, casting a questioning glance at my husband, who stood there with an amused expression on his face, his eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.

“I should have known, I suppose.” I sighed in mock exasperation, thinking of Mrs Hudson's words the previous afternoon once more.

Pushing the door to the hospital open, we entered the small anteroom that served as waiting area and made our way into the small doctors' office at the end of the downstairs ward that was now filled with so many cots and cradles.

“Scotland Yard was informed by a Doctor Watson yesterday, that the death of the children within the last week has not been due to an epidemic, but has been a case of poisoning.” the young inspector began, as we had settled ourselves down with a mug of tea in front of each of us.

“Yes, Sir, I asked him to contact you and make sure someone will be sent down here to investigate.”

He nodded, taking out a paper backed notebook and a pencil.

“Have you any evidence?”

“I would not make such assumptions if I had not. If you like, we could go through the files and I point out anything suspicious. Not that I doubt your competency...”

“By no means, you are the doctor and you will know better what might be disease and what not.”

Getting up, I went over to the small and rickety filing cabinet, unlocked it and lay out the papers onto the shabby old desk.

Just as we had opened the first folder, there was a timid knock on the door and Rhea Hayward entered, her face reproachful and her manner reticent.

“I see, you have finally made it here,” she stated in a rather insinuating tone. “The inspector went in search of you”

I could see, that Hopkins wanted to reply something, but I anticipated him.

“Yes, I am afraid, I had an appointment elsewhere earlier this morning, that could not be postponed. The inspector was informed of that by Mr. Holmes, and we met on the way here, but now that we have all arrived, I will show the inspector around.”

“Good.”

“By the way Rhea, is Doctor Hayward in today?” I asked her.

“He'll be in this afternoon. Currently, Doctor Turner is on duty, though he pointed out, that he might need to leave in case one of his regular patients is getting worse.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, gently dismissing her. 

The small hospital had no doctors as regular staff and mainly relied on voluntary nurses and a handful of midwives, who kept their practice on the upper storey, with two of them even living there permanently. The money that sustained the institution was paid by a charity fund and a lot of good will. If a doctor was needed, one was normally called in and paid straight away. But due to the current crisis, there had been many doctors who had offered their help for free and now took voluntary turns with the shifts, covering the days and being on call during the nights. 

Doctor Turner, who was regularly applied to by the hospital in case of an emergency, was an elderly man with a substantial girth and a jovial manner. His son had taken over his established practice in a decidedly better part on the outskirts of Winchester and he now only cared for a few remaining patients there. He liked his profession too much though, to leave the field all to the young Doctor Turner and over time, work at the hospital had become a regular habit of his. He had been one of my supporters, when I had first suggested, that the children had not died of disease, along with Rhea Hayward, though she was more reluctant to voice her opinion. All this I explained to Stanley Hopkins and Sherlock Holmes, who listened with great interest.

“Is there anything else?” I had looked up and realised, that Rhea Hayward was still lingering in the doorway, undecided what to do, but keenly listening in. I could clearly see her discovery of Holmes in my bedroom that morning had left a bitter taste with her. 

“No, nothing, Miss.” she finally said, emphasizing the last word, before leaving the room.

“I dare say, she has been trying to ascertain, whether she is right in her unflattering assumptions concerning our relationship.” my husband remarked.

“Yes, I already feel as if I have lost ground with her.” I sighed. I had honestly liked that woman, almost considered her a friend, but if she where, how could she possibly think of me so low? Why would she rather make assumptions instead of openly asking, what was going on?

“As I have told you, Harriet, it is never about what really is, but about what people think it is.”

I was suddenly very aware of the ring on my left hand and looked at the almost identical one on the left hand of Sherlock Holmes.


	8. A pattern appears (Harriet)

Chapter 8 – A pattern appears

 

Digging through all the files I had laid out was tedious work that took the three of us more than three hours, but thankfully it was also a frugal task. We compared and analysed the various cases and Holmes had begun to write down a list of what each of them might have in common with the other – sometimes writing down some new idea and occasionally crossing out a previous one, while Inspector Hopkins made general notes. As I had already established, all children affected, had been from around this confined area of town – including the merchant's baby, since he lived only across a small park that was separated to this part of town only by a small and shallow brook that in medieval times had fed the bishops watermill a little further downstream. Also, all children that had fallen ill, had been fed cow's milk with a bottle and teat – most of them, because the mothers needed to work and were unable to nurse their children. All children were not nursed that is, apart from one – the little daughter of the merchant had been breastfed by her mother – a woman caring and loving and certainly not in any need of adding to the family income by working. I had been told, that Mrs Granville was as dedicated a volunteer in this very place as Rhea Hayward was and her visiting the hospital shortly before the baby had died, had been attributed as the cause for her own daughter's death.

“So, if the children where poisoned, it could have been done by poisoning the milk.” Inspector Hopkins stated thoughtfully after we had finally managed to close the last file. “Apart from the little Granville – Girl, of course. But she might be a separate case altogether.” 

I looked at any sign of agreement from Holmes, but he was sitting in his chair, chin resting upon his chest and staring into space obviously deep in thought. Then, out of a sudden, he jumped to his feet, walking up and down the small and cramped room. 

“What is it?” I inquired.

“Poisoned milk… - How old was the oldest child again, that showed the symptoms ?”

“Ten months,” I replied. “Terry Fowler by name.”

“Why no child older than that? Aren't older children than that given milk as well? And don't adults use milk in their tea or coffee? Or in their porridge?” 

“Perhaps the dose was too low, to affect them.” the young inspector suggested. “And as for the grown-up folk, perhaps they had no money left for tea or coffee – or to put milk into their porridge. These people here are far from being wealthy.”

Holmes did not look convinced.

“How long are children fed by bottle?” he asked instead, looking as if he was onto something.

“It depends. Some are fed longer than others. Most poor families try and have them drink from a cup from quite an early age.”

“Why?”

“Because they have to replace the teats once a week when they start to rot.” 

The two men looked at me taken aback. Holmes raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“What are the teats made of?” the inspector finally asked after a few instances. 

“The ones we use here are made of rubber – it keeps a great deal longer and is easier to keep clean, one just has to wash them and boil them off, like suggested by Pasteur. And we can use them for more than one child. But they are also quite expensive in comparison.”

“To what?” Holmes interjected impatiently.

“To cow's teats, most commonly, though I have come across goat ones as well – though only once,” I replied calmly. “They are salted and dried and then need to be well watered before use to get rid of the preserving agent again.”

“What would happen if it isn't done?”

“The children would get extremely thirsty and dehydrated after a while – and in severe cases, they might show signs of natrium chloride poisoning. - Which manifests itself in unquenchable thirst, severe nausea and vomiting, polyuria and irregular heartbeat – so quite different from the symptoms the affected children showed. It, of course, might as well lead to death – and the smaller the child the smaller the dose necessary to kill it. But then again, a salted teat is as salty as a salted herring and no-one would eat such unwatered, it is just plain too salty and makes one stop.”

“How much is the difference in cost?” 

“More than six shillings each,” I answered. “A cow's teat costs between one and four pence – depending on the freshness and where you are – the ones in London are more pricey than the ones around here, I have been told – It's a matter of demand and supply. A rubber one costs usually around six shillings and eight pence. Also for the rubber ones you need special bottles, while the cow's teat can be simply pulled over an empty beer bottle and then be fixed in place with a piece of string or rubber band.”

“So the overall cost would exceed those six shillings by far, I presume,” my husband remarked.

“Yes. It's around triple the amount. And around here there is hardly a family that can afford to spend that much money all at once.”

“Where would you get these teats?” Hopkins wanted to know.

“The butcher shop. They are keen on selling the offal, of course.”

“Of course.” Holmes smiled, pocketing his notes and walking towards the door. “I think, Inspector, we might just start there. Do you know any butcher shops around here, Harriet?”

“Rhea Hayward will know.”

“Good, I'll ask her. - Oh and don't overexert yourself. Even you are entitled to a break once in a while.” he reminded me. “Yesterday was hard on you and most people would have chosen to stay at home – and rightly so. So, before you faint, do take a break.”

I inwardly rolled my eyes but nodded nonetheless. If I found the time, I would, perhaps, take a break I assured him.

“Not perhaps, Harriet!”

“All right, if I find the time, I WILL take a break.”

“No, you WILL take a break!”

xxx

After they had left, I sat there for a few minutes still, staring at the closed door. Cow's teats, milk, bottles – did it make a difference I wondered, finally getting up to make my round, beginning at my little emergency from last night. 

Megan was much more steady, her little face less ashen than the night before and her hands and feet more active. She currently lay in her mother's arms, looking perfectly content. Her big blue eyes inquisitive and lively.

From a sudden impulse, I asked the young woman: “What kind of teats are you using to feed Megan?”

“At the moment, the ones the hospital supplies, Doctor,” she replied, pointing at an empty bottle at the foot of her daughter's crib.

“No, I meant when you are at home.”

“The cheapest, Doctor. - It is all we can afford.” She looked slightly ashamed and I assured her, that there was no reason to feel shame – under her circumstances, it could well have happened to any mother that was faced with needing to bring up a child as a widow. No-one was ever so secure, that fate might not deal them a particularly bad set of cards and land them in the gutter. She now looked grateful, whispering a toneless 'thank you' and a tear was rolling down her cheek.

“Where do you get them?” I continued my inquiry.

“Oh, we usually get them from Carter – the butcher on Stoney Lane. It's on my way to work. And sometimes we are given teats from the charity. Which is very kind. They never last long, you know, and I don't like Megan to suckle on a rotting bit of flesh. - I might be poor, but I am not quite that desperate. So I get one at the beginning of the week and Mrs Hayward usually delivers another one on Thursday. If not, I get another one then myself.”

“Why don't you breastfeed?”

“I can't, I have to work and I cannot take Megan there, so my mother has to feed her with the bottle. When we first started I was still nursing her, but after she was offered the teats, she did not want suckle on my breast any longer.” I had anticipated her answer, as this was a common problem I had often encountered. 

I thanked her, wondering, why Mrs. Hayward had never told me about this. I had never heard her mention, that she was handing out teats to needy mothers and babies. But then again, why would she? She never bragged about her good deeds and there where many. From the way she and her husband behaved towards one another, I could see, that their marriage was not a happy one. How she had managed to convince him to help at the hospital was beyond me. He was neither dedicated nor specialised in the field. – And yet I was grateful for every doctor volunteering. There were six all in all, but most of them were in no position to close their practice completely to attend to the poor, as Doctor Hayward was – or Doctor Turner, for that matter. And so most of the time I had the displeasure to make do with him.

Rhea Hayward was different from her husband. She was dedicated to the extreme. Coming here first thing in the morning and often staying till late. I did not wonder much about it regarding her husband but wondered if she had no friends either to spend time with. She was, after all, a very charming and engaging woman. Fashionable and pretty she looked as if she could give grace to any salon of consequence if she wanted to.

xxx

Just as I had finished my train of thought, none other than Alastair Hayward himself stepped into the ward. 

“God, Doctor Stephens! It has happened, we have a case outside this confined area. And it is all my fault!” he cried out, his face looking a ghastly white, his forehead sweaty and his eyes staring in shock.

“What?!” I cried out. I was stunned by this announcement. 

“I was at my father's place yesterday morning, as every Thursday since he became tied to his bed.” he gasped for breath, so excited was he.

“But you spoke of another case?” I inquired, wondering what his infirm father had to do with these sick children. The answer shocked me.

“Yes. Oh, Doctor Stephens, it is my own little Rodger! My nephew. And I am sure, I am the one who carried the disease into my father's house,” he all but sobbed now, looking at me helplessly. This now was the first time, I had seen any emotion other than aloofness and arrogance in his countenance and I was surprised at how human it made him. Then again, his news was extremely distressing. 

How was this possible? After the initial shock, I tried to see reason and thought about what he had said, ignoring the horror of this information for a moment. Was it possible, that I was wrong? That it was an illness after all? No! I had been through this soliloquy several times and always came back to the conclusion, that there was no other reasonable explanation apart from those children being poisoned by something or someone. The symptoms were too erratic and sudden for any sickness. The recovery even more so. I was willing to admit, that perhaps they were not poisoned on purpose, but because someone was careless. But what was spreading through this slum, was no disease. And whether it was purposely or carelessly, the culprit needed to be stopped and brought to justice accordingly.

But if I stuck to my opinion, was it possible then, that little Rodger Hayward was suffering from something different? I inquired after the symptoms and got an exact repetition of the ones I had dealt with here over the last few days. 

“I am truly sorry, Doctor,” I assured him. “Would you like to return to your nephew and see that he is given the proper attention? I will be all right I think. It has quieted down and in case of an emergency I am sure Doctor Turner will fill in again.” 

He looked tempted at first, but then, straightening his shoulders, decided, that he would be of more use here, pointing out, that his father had a doctor at hand at all hours and that there was no need for another one there, while so many children where ill and dying here and with so few professionals to look after them at any rate. 

His false philanthropy made me cringe inwardly. He was back to his old self again. Had it been one of my nephews, nothing would have kept me from him, no matter if there was another doctor at hand or not. Hayward knew how to treat the affected children – one thing – the only one - he had not opposed me with as soon as he realised it worked. I began to wonder if little Roger was not simply suffering from indigestion or a growing tooth and that his information was only supposed to deter me from my own findings. There were a lot of male colleagues not liking to work with a woman and even less working under the lead of one. Considering he walked all over his wife at least once a day, I was not surprised he had a serious issue with me.

“Can you now admit, that it is a disease, Doctor Stephens?” he asked after a small pause and with a challenging expression.

“It is not, and I will prove it.”

He looked at me with an ironic glance that was bordering impertinence and was in weird contrast to his previously downcast attitude.

“Even if it is, who will listen to a woman such as you?” he growled, turning around on his heel.

“Excuse me? What are you implying?” 

“You know, that little affair of yours with the honourable Mr Sherlock Holmes – sleeping in your room. Hope he is as good in that field as he is in solving crimes.” Glancing back at me, he shook his head in feigned commiseration, the insinuating smile on his lips never faltering. 

I was rendered speechless. 

“I'll go looking for Rhea,” he shouted in my direction, as the door slammed shut behind him.


	9. Sinister Happenstances (Harriet)

Chapter 9 – Sinister happenstances

 

It had been already late afternoon and getting dark, when I finally sat down for a cup of tea, taking a break as I had promised. I have to admit I was exhausted and desperately needed a minute or two off my feet. But I had hardly brought the mug to my lips, when, unsurprising as always in these situations, an emergency call was raised. There had been only two new cases in all during the day – the third one just arriving being the little one that had been released against my order by Doctor Hayward the night before. Carried in by his frantic father, while the mother followed dissolved in hysterics.

The boy looked horrible, his whole body limp, his skin a deadly pallor, the breathing irregular and laboured. I had seen these signs of impending death several times before and I knew, that whatever I did, it would be a miracle if I saved the child now. No baby had yet died, once they had been in the care of the hospital for any length of time, dying either at home, on the way to the hospital or straight after their arrival. In this case, it would be the latter, but only if I could not help it. Admittedly, the boy had arrived so poorly, that I stood little chance, but I was not about to let him go without fighting for his young life. Hurriedly I ran to the storage cupboard, while the father clung to the small creature in sheer desperation, ignoring the uncontrollable sobs of his wife behind him, where she had sunk onto her knees. I unlocked it and flung the doors open, searching it for the active coal tablets. But there were none. I was sure, that last night, there had been at least another twenty of them. How could they have disappeared? Who could have used them? It did not make sense. The two other babies were only slightly ill and there had been no need to feed them the coal. I had rather kept them here for this hospital seemed to be a safe haven from the mysterious ailments that befell these children – ironically.

“Have you taken any of the charcoal?” I asked Hayward, who had just stepped into the ward again, his wife in tow. He shook his head, a contemptuous expression on his face.

“No, I have not, Doctor.” the last word was spoken in a way that made it pretty clear that I was losing my footing with him fast, also. Not that I had ever had much footing with him at any rate. The more I was convinced that these children where poisoned, the more he opposed me. 

“There where quite a few left this morning,” Rhea Hayward remarked quietly, looking as desperate as I must have looked at that moment, at least on her side, the contempt towards me left aside for the time being.

I looked around me frantically, hoping that miraculously a box of active charcoal would appear within sight. Then, in a last attempt to save the tiny boy, I hurried outside and towards the main street, where I knew I would find an apothecary. 

The man was about to close for the day, his face astonished at the young woman, bearing neither coat nor hat, running towards him, drumming against his door. 

“What is it, Madam?” he asked in a friendly tone nonetheless, opening the glass door, so I could enter.

“I need charcoal.” I panted, specifying, “Active charcoal.”

“Of course, come in, I'll get some for you.”

It took a good while – definitely too much time for my taste, until he came back, looking severe.

“I am afraid, we are sold out of active charcoal,” he told me apologetically. “You will have to come back tomorrow. It was all delivered to the hospital around the corner about two hours ago.” The man pointed towards the direction I had just come from. “Perhaps you could ask there.”

“How many were delivered there?” I asked him, my voice faltering.

“A whole crate.”

I did the maths in my head.

“But that are about five hundred compressed tablets.”

“Yes, there about.”

I stared at him in disbelieve.

“There has been no delivery. I just came from there, there is not a single charcoal tablet in the whole store over there.”

“Well, perhaps they have already used it, who knows? At any rate, I have none left.”

“That is impossible!” I almost sobbed. “It must be a mistake, it cannot be so. I know they were not used. And certainly not that many.”

“Alas it is not, Madam, I am sorry.”

“Is there any other place close, where I could go to get some?”

“You could ask at the doctors two doors up from mine. In case he is not in his practice, he lives above it, you might find him there. He might have some. I know he keeps a small stock of medication.” he suggested with polite calmness. A calmness that got to my nerves.

I thanked him and made my way to the doctor in question. - Who, of course, was out, visiting one of his patients. In my desperation I stomped my foot like a child, tears of frustration running down my face, blinding me to my surroundings. 

All of a sudden a pair of arms wrapped around me and held me close. I did not need to look to know, that it was my husband who embraced me. His presence was surprisingly soothing.

“It is too late, Harriet.” he told me quietly, his voice shaking. “He did not make it. You had not left the hospital when he had breathed his last.”

“Why, Sherlock? Why?” I sobbed into his shoulder. And all he did, was just hold me tight – no pointless words or empty phrases, just the comfort of another person being close.

It did not take me long to calm down again, but it left me embarrassed. Never had I liked dissolving to tears in public and usually I took great care not to do so, but restrained them, waiting till I was on my own and could, without anybody knowing, give in to a good weeping. But the pressure of the last few days, the shock the morning before, then the incidents in the evening, the unexpected event this morning, the contempt of a valued and trusted acquaintance, the insolence of her husband and now the baby boy's sudden death had taken their toll. But as embarrassed as I felt, I still felt better for having shed my tears and having received comfort. As if a heavy weight was lifted, I was now able to carry on with my task. I looked up and into Holmes' grey eyes to see him smile gently, wiping away the tears that still glistened on my cheeks with his thumb.

“Sorry,” I sniffed. He handed me his handkerchief and I blew my nose unabashed unladylike.

“What are you sorry for? None of this is your fault, either. And I told you yesterday, that if you do not take care of yourself, that this will happen. I suggest, you go to bed now, so tomorrow you will feel better.”

“But...” I tried to object but to no avail.

“No but! I know you have a lot to do and I agree, you have. But it will help no-one if you work till you faint from exhaustion. Take that advice from someone who has made the very same mistake more than once.”

“Just let me organise some charcoal first.”

“I have some in my toiletry bag,” he replied. “I'll deliver it to the hospital as soon as I have you settled in bed.”

“No, don't! I'll rather keep it with me.” I entreated him. He looked puzzled.

“But I thought you said that there is none left there.”

“That is the very thing. I am certain, that there were several left last night. And none were used during the day, at least not to my knowledge, and certainly not as many - but there are none left in the cupboard. These children are so small, one at a time ground to dust and dissolved in water or milk is more than enough. And when I asked the apothecary for more tablets, he said, that they have been ordered by and been delivered to the hospital.”

“Could they have been misplaced?”

“Perhaps, but I have been there all day since we arrived in the morning, and I know that no delivery was made, apart from the food.”

“That indeed is most remarkable.”

xxx

The room had been restored to its former arrangement by the maids, the sofa being at the foot end of the bed again and the screen covering the washstand from view once more. I changed into my night clothes, pushing the thought aside, that this was going to be my wedding night. Glancing at my husband, I was sure that he too, was acutely aware of this.

“How come you carry charcoal tablets around with you?” I asked him instead while brushing my hair.

“Because they have come in handy so many times while I travelled, that I thought it a good thing to always have some with me in the future.”

“Sounds sensible,” I remarked stepping out from behind the screen, braiding my hair.

“Once in awhile, I am even that.” he grinned boyishly, which suited him astonishingly well. “I have not many, but hopefully there will be enough for the night. And tomorrow you can pick up some from around town. - And if there is another incident like last night – that suddenly all active coal in town has been sold out – we can always send a telegram to Watson, to bring us some down from London.”

“Did you find out anything, by the way?” I inquired while slipping under the covers of the comfortable bed.

“Perhaps.” And with a gentleness that took me by surprise, he tucked me into bed, kissing my forehead. 

“I might be a while, Harriet,” Holmes informed me, turning on his heel. “I have yet to find out something.”

xxx

I had fallen asleep almost as soon, as I had heard him lock the door from the outside. He had left a second key with me, but advised me, to not open the door to anyone. It had made me feel slightly uneasy, but not enough so, to keep me from sleeping. 

It was several hours later – or so I assumed when I was roused again by the turning of the key. I sat bolt upright, trying to see anything through the darkness. I could only make out a tall figure in the frame of the dimly lit doorway, but it was enough to ascertain, that it was Sherlock Holmes who had returned.

“I thought I was quiet enough not to wake you,” he said calmly, walking over towards the candlestick on the mantelpiece, which he lit with a match. The golden glow of the candle filled the room with a warm light. Holmes blew out the match and threw it into the fireplace.

“Do you mind if I smoke a pipe or two?” he asked. I replied that I would not.

“Good.”

He took off his coat and cravat, tossing both onto one of the armchairs, while sitting down in the other, lighting his pipe. 

I could not resist looking at him closely. How he sat there, his eyes half closed, the clay pipe stuck between his thin lips, the sharpness of his nose, his prominent brow, the high forehead. He looked stern, but not inaccessible, underneath the cold and aloof exterior I could make out a warm heart and gentle soul, something so much more, than one could see at first glance. 

The pipe had gone out eventually and as he stuffed it once more, he suddenly looked up and into my eyes, a small smile crossing his features.

“I must excuse myself, Harriet.” he apologised. “I am extremely impolite. You want to sleep and I sit here and keep on smoking.”

“You do not disturb me,” I replied. “I am following my own train of thought.”

“By looking at me?”

“Why not? Would you rather I stare at the wall?” 

“No, you may stare at me, as long as you like.”

“Good.”

“And what is the conclusion you have come to?” he inquired, looking curious.

“That if the person, who has hung that thing up in my house is the same one that has set us up by taking all the rooms in town and placing that noose and doll in my bed - and also the same one, who has taken care that no tablets are to be had, that it must be an influential person with a good amount of money at hand. - But what possible motive could such a person have, killing the children of these poor people?”

“I came to the first conclusion as well and the second question is what I ponder on now.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“I have a suspicion, but I will need to prove it. Suspects I have several – too many actually, but nothing definite. I received a telegram from Watson this evening, telling me, he has gotten hold of the man that got into your house. He is now in custody. But, it seems he was ordered by a very influential and potentially dangerous man, as he refuses to speak. - Which ties in with our conclusions. I think I might go to London tomorrow morning and talk to that man in person. Perhaps a severely displeased husband will convince him that there are also other forces to be reckoned with. If I confront him with the facts, he might come forward with who he is working for. Hopkins will keep an eye on you until I'm back.”

“Do you think I am still in danger?” 

“I think you are in greater danger than ever. And I cannot stand the thought of losing you - now that I have you,” he told me matter of factly, without the slightest hint of sentimentality and still, his words touched me greatly. 

I did not know, how to reply to this. It was the closest thing to an “I love you” I had ever induced a man to say to me. He had also finished his second pipe in the meantime and now got up, taking the pillow from his side of the bed and a blanket to bunk on the sofa again.

“You know, you can legally sleep in the same bed as me now?” I told him calmly, thinking that the rather short sofa with the high armrests could not possibly be comfortable for a man as tall as Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, I am aware of that, but...” he looked at the couch, then at the wide and comfortable bed and finally at me, biting his lip. Finally, after a few moments of hesitation, he placed the pillow back on the bed, his face unreadable as he disappeared behind the folding screen to get changed.


	10. An illustrious family (Watson)

An illustrious family

 

As we drove on towards Baker Street, Holmes gave me a shortened account of what had happened in Winchester thus far.

“So you really are married?” I still found it difficult to believe. Sherlock Holmes had been such a confirmed bachelor, that seeing him as a married man was almost surreal.

“Yes.” He felt for his wedding ring as if he himself had to assure himself of the truth of it.

“And there was no other option?”

“Perhaps there would have been. We could have only acted as a married couple, of course, but I doubt it would have done quite as well.”

“Why not?”

“Whoever was behind taking all the rooms in town to compromise Harriet – or possibly even both of us, would have found out eventually, that we are only playing the part, and thus I would have gotten the lady into even greater trouble. We would have played right into his hands. – As it stands, we fell into his trap anyway and the best way out of it was doing the unexpected. And what would have been more unexpected than me marrying?” he grimaced in self-depreciation, shaking his head lightly. “I cannot believe I was so naive, Watson! Anyway, all his actions show that he is a clever man – and not just that, he is cold blooded to an extent that is worrying. Being able to produce a wedding license was, therefore, essential to avoid ruining our names. And hence we actually had to marry.”

“And Mrs Holmes? Is she all right with this arrangement?” I wondered, thinking of the pretty, independent and clever woman trapped in a relationship such as this for the sole reason of saving her reputation. 

“I can assure you, Watson, that nothing would induce my wife to do anything she does not want to unless forced with violence. – And even then I would not wager on it.” he chuckled, “I have already made good acquaintance with that stubbornness of hers, believe me. A mule is co-operative in comparison.”

I grinned likewise and yet was still concerned. I could not help feeling, that my friend made too lightly off it. He was not an emotional man, if he was not shown much love, I was sure it would hardly bother him. But would his wife be contended, if she was left to her own devices? I doubted it. 

“Will you annul the wedding once the case has been solved?” I asked hence, as the cab came to a halt on our doorstep, almost already assuming that this had been both their intention anyway. Holmes unlocked the door and we entered into the dimly lit hallway. He remained silent as if he needed to think about that option.

“No,” my friend at last stated with an emphasis that took me by surprise, “no, I will not annul the wedding, Watson.”

“But...”

“Would you annul your marriage?” he asked, turning up the gas of our sitting room and taking off his overcoat.

“Of course I would not. I love my wife.”

“Ah!” he replied as if this one syllable explained it all. 

He went silent again as he searched for the volume containing everything regarding the letter H, making it very clear by his behaviour that he considered the subject of his sudden marriage and a possible annulment closed. I, knowing that he was not any less stubborn than his wife, left it at that, at least for the moment.

xxx

“Hayward, Julian, here he is – Lord Mansfield, oldest son of Rodger Hayward the elder, 4th Earl of Warnborough. - You were right, Watson, he died six weeks ago. Falling off his horse during a fox hunt. Apparently, his gelding was frightened by an untrained dog, the hunting party had taken with them. He broke his neck when hitting a tree root in an unfortunate manner. Lord Mansfield is leaving his wife and two children behind – Lady Amaris, born Dawson, of American descent, Isabel aged three and Rodger aged two months. There also was an older child – Francis, who would be almost eight, had he not died seven years ago from a severe case of mumps,” Holmes read aloud, turning some more pages.

“Rodger Hayward, Earl of Warnborough, born 1835, married to Parthenia, second daughter to Lord Dumfries. - What an illustrious family, indeed. The main seat of the family is Warnborough Park near Petersfield,” Holmes continued. “Ah, and here he is – Alastair Hayward, second son of the Earl of Warnborough.”

“But why would he be working as a doctor?” I wondered. “By the sound of it, the family is a rich one and even the second son should be well enough provided for, to not having to work. So why does he? Is he such a philanthropist?”

“That, Watson, we are going to find out in due course. I think you should take up on the offer of my dear cousin and leave the practice in his sole care for a day or two.”

He walked over to our buffet and took Bradshaw's train schedule from its top shelve where it had been kept since we first moved into these rooms. 

“We have time enough for a cup of tea and a sandwich before we need to set out for the station. There is a train leaving at four forty-five from Waterloo. With a bit of luck, we will be able to talk to the Earl in person.”

He rang for the maid and a couple of minutes later tea was served. The young girl though was lingering around as if she wanted to ask something.

“What is it, Jane?” I asked her, pouring Holmes and myself some tea.

“I just wanted to know, if everything is all right with the baby?” she looked at my companion with an expectant gleam on her friendly face.

Holmes looked at her blankly, obviously confused and apparently thinking of something else altogether.

“Little Louise, I mean,” the maid added.

“Ah, yes, of course. She should be fine. Sir Cedric has children of his own and employs a nursemaid I was told. I don't know any reason she should not be all right.” my friend answered absent-mindedly. 

“But they are talking about an epidemic somewhere in the south that kills young babes.” 

“You should not pay that much attention to gossip, Jane.” she was reprimanded, not quite justly as it had been in the papers and was not mere gossip.

Still, she curtsied apologetically. 

“Oh, and that lady the other day, the one that fainted here, she is the mother? Mrs Hudson said something thereabouts. She is the sister of that Sir Cedric, is she not?”

I could see Holmes getting slightly irritated.

“She is Sir Cedric's sister, but no, she is not the mother of any child. – Not yet anyway.” the last sentence was spoken more to himself than to either Jane or me. “But the child was in her care” he continued.

“Was that the reason she fainted?” the young girl gasped, eyes widening, having drawn the wrong conclusions.

“What?” Holmes asked before her implication dawned on him. “No, she is not… - You know. She fainted because she was in a severe state of shock. You saw the state she was in when she arrived. Someone frightened the living daylights out of her. It is rather a miracle she did not faint on the spot. Now, does that answer all your questions?”

She knew she was dismissed, but I could see that her curiosity was not quenched. Biting her lip I was certain, that she would peruse the subject. Jane had seen many clients come and go, but Harriet Stephrey's entrance was certainly the most dramatic she had witnessed. 

Shaking his head Holmes helped himself to another cup of tea and a sandwich. 

“She is a curious one. Hope that will not get her into trouble one day,” he remarked. “But then again it's this curiosity of hers that makes her that attentive. She really is the first maid Mrs Hudson has nothing but praise for.”

“That has something to say, indeed. And if you and Mrs Holmes ever need a nursemaid, I think she might be a good choice,” I suggested jokingly.

“I think you might be right, Watson. I'll tell my wife right away as soon as I see her,” Holmes replied matter of factly, taking a sip of tea. 

xxx

We easily managed to catch the train to Petersfield and hired a dogcart at the station to bring us to Warnborough Park. The coachman was a silent young man with honey blond side whiskers, bright blue eyes and a morose attitude. It happened rarely that Holmes could not get any information out of a man, but this seemed one of these rare instances.

“The Park?” the man had huffed as we gave our destination. “Very well.” - his tone of voice showed that he clearly thought otherwise.

The drive was a moderate one, and its first part mostly conducted in silence, only once in a while interrupted by a question from my friend that was always answered by the same monotonous: “Hm.” from there on.

“Have you been living around here for long?” - “Hm.”

“Do you know the Park well?” - “Hm.”

“Have you ever met Doctor Hayward?” - “Hm.”

“How is your mother? Her rheumatism must trouble her quite a bit during this time of year. But I hope it is getting better since she has been to see the apothecary lately.” Holmes finally queried in a nonchalant manner.

The man halted the horses, looking at Holmes in sheer disbelief.

“Are you one of these fortune tellers from the circus?” he asked bewildered, forgetting his repellent behaviour towards us.

“No, I observe and deduce, nothing more. No fortune telling or magic spells, I am afraid.”

“Then how do you know all that?”

“Well, there is the deal – I'll answer your questions if you'll answer mine.” Holmes held out his hand and the groom took it without further ado, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“So, if you want me to, I'll begin,” the detective offered. “You are obviously not married since you wear no ring, yet your waistcoat is mended in such a neat way as no bachelor would manage – apart perhaps from a soldier. Then again, the way they are taught to mend their things is quite different from a woman's caring hand and also, you are clearly not a military man. On top of that, your attire is as neat as could possibly be, which suggests that the said woman cares for you greatly and takes a certain pride in your appearance. So, who apart from a wife, could be such a woman? A sister perhaps? - Maybe. But when that young man carries a jar of comfrey ointment and a bottle of barberry pastilles, it suggests an older woman. One actually who suffers from rheumatism. Now, we are getting close to the solution on who this woman might be. His mother of course. Neither the ointment nor the pastilles are ready-made, to avoid them losing their potency. They both need to be produced on demand, which takes a day or two at most. In the country it is more likely that the pharmacist is more complying than in the city, he would not want anyone to speak badly of his business. Hence, your mother has visited him within the last few days and today you picked up the remedy for her.”

The coachman shook his head in astonishment. An astonishment I had often experienced myself. 

“That is amazing!” he cried, having set the carriage into motion again during my friend's explanation. But Holmes carried on even further:

“At first glance, of course, it could just as well have been your father, who had been ill, but I observed your watch chain and the top of your watch sticking out from your pocket and it is a decidedly older fashion than befits a man of your age. It suggested, that you have inherited it – and by whom would you inherit such a valuable thing? By none other than your late father.”

“Could it not have been from his grandfather?” I wondered, muttering more to myself than to anyone else.

“No, because if it had been this man's grandfather, the watch would have first gone to his father and only then to himself. - Remember your own watch, Watson. - Some traditions are sacred.”

“I did indeed inherited it from my father. He died four years since.”

“So, now that I have told you my secrets, it is your turn.” Holmes reminded him. “Have you been around here long?”

“I was born and raised in Petersfield. All my family where crofters and we keep a small farm over yonder.” he pointed in the rough direction. “Two and a half acres, a vegetable garden and an orchard are all we've got. It's not much, but we get by.”

“Do you know the park well?”

“My father worked there as an assistant to the steward. I went there with him almost every day from the time I was a nipper. I liked sitting on the horse's backs when ploughing or bringing in the harvest. Reckon that is why I took to this profession.” he gestured towards his horse, which was still young and very well kept.

“So, tell me, why did your family fall out with the Haywards? It must have been a very good and profitable connection and under normal circumstances should have afforded you a decent position in the household or the stables.”

The young man grimaced, his face taking a self-ironic expression. “And so it did – under normal circumstances. It is just that I... – I made it a bit too obvious, that I liked the young lady a great deal. Poor thing! Her husband is a good for nothing scoundrel. Even his father cut off most of his allowance and he has to work like any other man. Does not like that, does he.”

“You are talking about Alastair Hayward?”

“Yes, who else? Lord Mansfield was different. He was polite and thoughtful. A good master and sportsman, husband and father. Had he been alive then, none of this would have happened.”

“So how was it, you lost your position then, that I take it you held?”

“I did. I filled the same one my father had held and I would have made it steward one day for I was capable and young and no-one had ever had any reason to complain. But when Lord Mansfield died his brother took over his businesses. He had never forgotten walking in on me, holding his wife in my arms as she was crying over her fate. She had often sought refuge with me.”

“Well, no man would like to find his wife in the arms of another,” Holmes reminded him.

“You are right, of course, I would not like it at all myself. But neither would I beat up my wife. Any man who does deserves to find his woman in the arms of another. And aside from that, I did only comfort her. She cried on my shoulder and nothing more. Anyway, one of his first actions as soon as he took over the business, was to get rid of me, claiming I had stolen something. I cannot even remember what exactly it was, that I was supposed to have taken. Some item of jewellery it was. How I was supposed to have come to it, they never explained. I had no access to the house, let alone the private quarters. I was then told I could consider myself lucky that there would be no inquest, but that I had to leave immediately and without my last pay which was due at the end of that very same week. - But there is Warnborough Park, now.” 

A large and imposing building came into view, looming ahead of us in the twilight. Several windows were illuminated and the light glistened inviting across a small lake and an extensive lawn, here and there dotted by outdated topiary sculptures and low box hedges. 

“Thank you, for your information. It is quite valuable to me.” Holmes told him earnestly. The man seemed astonished.

“Is it? You are welcome.”

xxx

Knocking on the front door it was almost immediately opened by a very old and very proper butler, standing as upright and straight as an old soldier. His face was wrinkled and lined like a dried out river bed, his hair looked like tufts of cotton wool. He would have been a forbidding sight had it not been for his keen and friendly brown eyes, that held an inviting and sincere warmth.

“Sirs? How may I help you?” he asked in a clear and steady voice, that belied his age.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this gentleman is Doctor John Watson. We would like to speak to the Earl about his son.”

The man's face darkened slightly at the request.

“Sir, you must be aware that this is a very inconvenient time. The Earl is quite incapable of receiving any visitors and Lady Parthenia has asked not to be disturbed either.”

“It is of the utmost importance or else I would not have bothered coming here.” Holmes insisted. “If you could just hand this to your master, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Holmes took out his notebook from his pocket, scribbling something onto a page. He ripped it out, folded it and handed it to the butler. The man sighed but promised to see what could be done, leading us into a spacious entrance hall with a large and elegant staircase dominating it, gracefully curving around the circular room, leading up to a lofty gallery. It was a draughty place in winter and the merrily burning fire in its marble confinement did not suffice to heat up the room at all. 

“What have you written on that piece of paper?” I asked, as soon as the butler was out of earshot. 

“Oh, only who I am and that I am here to help him avoid a public scandal, concerning his son. But that in order to do so, I need his and his wife's assistance.”

My friend stepped closer to the fireplace, rubbing his cold hands together. 

“It has gotten decidedly colder over the last few days, has it not, Doctor?”

“I honestly could not say,” I admitted.

“It has.” a calm voice said from above us. Looking up I could see a young and extremely beautiful woman with a crown of golden hair encircling her queenly head like a halo. She was clad in black from head to toe looking like an angel of doom as she descended the stairs halfway. Holmes took a step back so he could see her also, bowing his head lightly.

“Lady Amaris.”

“So, you are Sherlock Holmes,” she continued, speaking with an unmistakable American accent. “What could you possibly want from us? You are aware that this is a most inconvenient time for a visit. I am certain the news must have reached the papers by now.”

Her behaviour would have been insolent, had it not been for the sorrow dripping from every single word she spoke. Picking up on it as well, Holmes' face grew grave.

“Whatever do you mean, Lady Mansfield?”

“You are a Doctor, are you not?” she turned towards me, without answering my companions question.

“I am,” I affirmed.

“Good. If you could please follow me.”

Holmes nodded slightly, showing his approval, his expression otherwise unreadable and so I followed the lady back up the stairs, curious about her bewildering behaviour. We walked down a long corridor till we reached another set of stairs which we ascended as well, reaching the nursery a moment later. A pretty little girl with pigtails the same colour than her mothers came running towards us, a nurse hard on her heels.

“I am sorry, Madam, she just won't go to bed.” the agitated servant cried.

“Mummy, I am not tired, can't I play a moment longer?” the little one begged, her face all sweetness while she clung to her mother's skirts. She herself was already dressed in her nightshirt, her feet stuck in a pair of thick cheerful hooped bed socks while the maid held a tiny dressing gown of pink velvet in her hands, that she now tried to put on the child.

“I do not like that thing! I want my blue one” the little one protested, putting up a fight as the nurse slid one sleeve onto her arm.

“But that does not fit you any more...” the nurse cooed, trying to convince the stubborn toddler, but to no avail. Involuntarily I had to smile.

“You will put your pink one on, Isabel! And you will go to bed, now!” her mother insisted in an irritated undertone that was not to be gainsaid.

Her daughter knew better than to try arguing, walking back into her room, sulking. Continuing further along the passage, we finally reached another door. The lady straightened her back and held her head high as if she needed to force herself to enter the chamber, but with a steady hand she opened the door and we entered. It turned out to be another nursery, lovingly made up and comfortably laid out. Despite the lack of a fireplace, it was well heated and the draught was kept out by thick velvet curtains in front of the windows. A wet nurse sat in a rocking chair in the corner trying to feed a listless baby.

“You must be astonished at my behaviour, Sir, but my son is very ill and my father in laws doctor is quite at a loss as to what to do. And since he has heard of his grandson's illness, the Earl has gotten a lot worse and now needs constant attendance by his physician. I have sent for a specialist from London, but he has not arrived – or even answered. My brother in law had a look at Rodger yesterday and gave him some charcoal, which seemed to work, but little Roddy has gotten even sicker since then.”

By now her façade had dropped and an extremely worried and loving mother stood before me her eyes brimming with tears and her lips quivering.

“Whom did you send for?” I inquired, walking over to the child, taking it from the nurse.

“I was recommended a Doctor Stephens from London.”

“But Doctor Stephens is in Winchester currently! Would you like me to send for her?”

“Yes, please. Do so immediately.”

“Nurse, could you please tell Mr Holmes to send for Doctor Stephens as quickly as possible?”

The heavy woman got up, moving out of the room with astonishing agility. Meanwhile, I put the baby down into his cradle to examine him closely. His skin was an ashen colour, his breathing laboured and his tonicity limp in general, apart from when some uncontrollable spasm seemed to go through his tiny body. I took my stethoscope from my hat and checked his breathing. His lungs seemed healthy and yet, he was hardly able to take a proper breath. He seemed agitated, a sight that was positively disturbing in such a little fellow. I picked up the small rubber dummy that I had spotted lying inside the crib. He took it eagerly at first, before spitting it out again. As I tried to figure out what was to be done, aware of the watchful glances of the boy's mother, a commotion was heard in the hallway and hurrying footsteps approached.

“Sir!” we heard a woman yell outside our door. “Will you stop right there, sir!” 

A moment later Sherlock Holmes stormed into the room, rushing over to the tiny boy, pushing me aside and picking him up, holding him to his shoulder, carefully caressing and soothing the baby.

“Have you any charcoal at hand?” he panted, out of breath, his face white and with a strained expression. “I have sent for Harriet.”

“What do you think you are do…” the lady tried to ask, but Holmes cut her short.

“We have no time for formalities. Do you have charcoal tablets?”

“Alastair left me some.” the lady stammered, looking at my companion, livid.

“Dissolve them,” he ordered, ignoring her angry stares.

“Holmes, whatever are you doing?” I inquired.

“I try to save this little man's life.”

He sat down in the rocking chair the nurse had vacated, still holding the baby in his arms, while the maid was busying herself to fulfil the detective's order. As the coal had dissolved, he took the glass from her, putting it down on the side table next to him and carefully filled a teaspoon with the murky liquid.

“You know it is easier if you hold him like this,” the nursemaid tried to show him. But Holmes refused.

“He breathes heavily, it is more comfortable for him if he is not lying down for the moment. The effects of the poison first need to be counteracted.”


	11. Called Away (Harriet)

Called away

 

I woke up the next morning with an arm wrapped around my waist and someone breathing down my neck. Startled I gave a cry, rousing the man dozing half asleep next to me.

“What has happened?” he asked, opening his eyes in alarm, tightening the grip around me.

“Nothing, I just forgot...” I almost had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation but managed to keep a straight face. – Well, almost.

“You just forgot your poor husband sleeping next to you.” Sherlock Holmes was now fully awake again, his face assuming an equally amused expression. 

“Yes,” I admitted, turning around to face him.

“And there I was thinking I had kept you nice and warm enough in my arms that you would remember me. - I must have done something wrong, apparently,” he replied in mock exasperation, kissing my lips swiftly. “Remind me to rectify that tonight.”

He slid across the wide bed to his initial side of it, getting up from between the comfortably thick sheets, as I did likewise on the other.

Remembering his plans for the day I asked: “Which train are you going to take?” 

“The nine twenty. I'll escort you to the hospital first and then walk back to the station. I have to write down some notes still.”

“And when will you be back?”

“I cannot say. It might get rather late, so I suggest you ask Hopkins to walk you back to the Inn when you have finished work. I also recommend you lock the door behind you.”

“I always lock the door – particularly after the shock two days ago and I can just as well walk back by myself.”

“No, you will ask Hopkins.” he insisted and then, thinking the better of it, added, “Actually I will ask him. Just to make sure.”

“Don't you think that might be a bit exaggerated?”

“No, it is not. You should be all right inside the hospital – it's a busy and public enough place to keep you from harm...”

“So are the roads,”I argued.

“Yes, but the roads will be dark by the time you have finished your work and go home.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he took my face into his hands, kissing me with astonishing passion.

“I know you are not afraid of the darkness, I know you love your independence, I know you get along just fine all by yourself, but this once, please oblige me,” he begged me between kisses.

“You are impossible, Sherlock.” I groaned, enjoying the sensation of his loving caresses.

“I know.” he smiled in that boyish manner that suited him so well, before turning serious again, holding me at arm's length: “Promise me?”

I held out my hand, which he took.

“Good. Breakfast? I am starving!” 

“We are not even dressed, yet,” I pointed out.

“Then why don't you just ring the bell and order some up then?” my husband suggested, beginning to shave. 

xxx

About an hour later we where on our way to the small hospital, that had become the centre of so much grief, once more. As we walked arm in arm in comfortable silence we met Rhea Hayward, who had been about to turn into the same alleyway that we strolled along. 

“Mrs Hayward,” Holmes acknowledged her, tipping the brim of his hat with his walking stick, while I just nodded. 

“Mr Holmes, Dr Stephens – Miss.” she greeted back with an audacious manner that was in stark contrast to her former warmth and friendliness. 

“Mrs. would actually be the accurate form of address,” Holmes corrected her.

“Mrs?” she looked at us suspiciously. 

“Yes, has she never told you?” he looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“No, I never have.” I caught up on the cue. “You always said bearing your name might get awkward and dangerous at times and that my maiden name might be safer to use. I stuck to that.”

“I did, didn't I?” he smiled warmly, bringing my hand to his lips. “Well, I am not used to so much dutifulness from my wife.” Holmes quipped a pleased smirk on his face. “- But since it seems to be an issue of concern for you – even though it is beyond me, why it would be - Mrs Hayward, let me assure you, that this indeed is my wedded wife. And hence there is no need for any concern regarding her respectability.”

She looked astounded at this revelation at first, watching us closely for any sign of betrayal. But finding none, she smiled apologetically, reaching out her hand.

“I am sorry, I should have known, I suppose. The two of you are obviously very close, anyone can see that clearly. It should have occurred to me, that you might be married. - It should have done so last morning, when...” she hesitated. “But the difference in name had me quite confused. I hope you can forgive my assumptions and my disrespectful behaviour towards you yesterday.”

Holmes just bowed his head politely, but I, having worked with her and liked her a great deal, took her hand and shook it. Though still slightly disappointed in her, I had never been one to hold grudges, usually finding it easier to let matters of that kind simply drop. After all one could never know when oneself had to make amends born from prejudice to another fellow creature.

“So, did you find out something already?” she asked, as the three of us now resumed our path.

I was about to answer her, telling her about our findings, but my husband was quicker than I:

“Not much, I am afraid. We only have established that the children are poisoned, but apart from that? No, nothing. Sometimes it takes a while till one gets a chance of finding all the clues that lead to the solution.”

“But the babies?” she reminded him, her face sorrowful. “They are dying, Mr Holmes!”

“Yes, they are. And it needs to end. I will go back to London today and consult with a specialist – he will know what to do.”

“Bring in another doctor?” she asked, eagerly.

“No, not a doctor. I said a specialist.”

“Ah.” she looked confused. “I was not aware that there is a difference...”

xxx

Sherlock Holmes had left me to my work as soon as he had finished with his notes, once more reminding me, that I should not neglect myself and take a break during the day. Smiling I had kissed him and send him on his way, hoping that he would find something to finish this horror. I was actually quite sure he would. There was something in his behaviour that told me he had caught up on something, something I must have missed completely. And yet, I was not there to solve the mystery, I was here to heal the babies brought into my care. The expectation of seeing him again in the evening filled me with a kind of joy I had not known before. 

The day passed in relative peacefulness. Only one child was brought in, and the ones that had already been at the hospital where all getting better rapidly. I was sitting in my office when I remembered the news that Doctor Hayward's nephew had also been taken ill. In the confusion of last night, I had forgotten to tell Sherlock and now I felt bad about it. I had a feeling he should know. For a moment I considered sending him a telegram, but then remembered the promise I had made not to leave the hospital unaccompanied and decided, that I could just as well inform him about that as soon as he returned. I wrote a note to myself and stuffed it, neatly folded, into the front of my waist. But even if I could not tell my husband, at least I could ask Rhea about her nephew's state of health. She certainly must be worried about the sick little man, as she was over every unwell child. 

“Mrs Hayward – Rhea,” I began, approaching her, uncertain as to how to begin such a delicate topic. “Your husband told me yesterday, that your nephew has also been taken ill. I just wondered if he is all right again?”

She looked somewhat surprised, sitting in a corner beside one of the many cot beds stuffed into the ward, trying to calm the squirming infant within down, by gently caressing his temple.

“Oh, I was not aware, you knew about little Rodger. Yes, he is already better. But believe it or not, Alastair thinks he is suffering from the same thing these babes are suffering from.” she gestured at the many beds. “But how could that be, if they are poisoned?”

“I don't know,” I admitted.

“Alastair is sure, that it is a disease that is causing all this trouble.”

“And I still disagree with him, Rhea. I am certain it is not, and I am about to prove it. It might very well be, that your nephew is suffering from something that has similar symptoms than an arsenic poisoning. - It could be something as simple as indigestion, colic, a slight fever, swollen glands, stomach flu - all these cause symptoms not dissimilar to what we have here. And an extremely watchful eye can sometimes be as much of a nuisance as a blind one. One ignores, the other might greatly exaggerate.”

I was not believing my own words at this moment. But she was right. How was it possible that her nephew was likewise poisoned as where these children? Hoping that my own husband would not take too long to return, I chose to seemingly ignore the obvious and instead rather ease the young woman's mind by blatantly lying.

As she stood before me, she looked so childlike and fragile. She was tiny in comparison to my own tall figure. Willowy to a point where one got the feeling one could break her, by just touching her in any other way than the most gentle one. With her strikingly gorgeous dark red hair, her amber eyes and clear pale skin, almost translucent, she looked like a fairy. I had never taken the time to look at her closely, always too busy to dwell on such insignificant things as outward appearance. Now that I had the time I was taken aback by her otherworldly beauty. Her dress, as usual, was hidden beneath a grey linen pinafore, but I could make out the cuffs of it, being a most stunning velvety green, not unlike an emerald.

“At any rate, if you would like me to, I would be more than willing to visit your sister in law. Does she live close?”

“Oh, that would be so kind. It is not very far, just on the other side of town. I will tell her about your offer, that I am sure she will only be too happy to take.” she beamed at me as if I had just fulfilled her greatest hopes. 

But then again, she was a kind-hearted and caring person, happiest, when she could be of use for somebody. With a dainty step, she almost danced out of the room. A woman who could be jubilating in one moment and crying her heart out in the next. I appreciated her greatness of mind but at the same time now found it oddly irritating. There was something about her, that I suddenly thought was unsettling. One never really knew what to expect. Then again, from the first time I had met her, her mood had been swinging like a pendulum and it had never bothered me before. I began to wonder if I had really forgiven her as completely as I had thought I had and came to the conclusion, that perhaps I needed to try a bit harder. 

xxx

I was about to leave the hospital for the day and was only waiting for Inspector Hopkins to pick me up as I had promised. But he was not due for another half hour and I was growing impatient. The night was already falling and the night watchman was turning up the gas of the street lamps, when a dirt-crusted boy of at most eight or nine, came wavering through the door. The right side of his face was badly bruised and his nose bled heavily, as did a wound on his forehead. He was crying quietly, tears streaming down his face mingling with the blood and dripping down onto his shirt front.

“Dear me, come here!” I cried, hurrying towards him. “Whatever has happened to you?”

“Dunno...” he answered drowsily, his feet staggering across the uneven wooden floor. 

“Sit!” I ordered, pushing him towards one of the visitors chairs. He slumped down on one, looking at me helplessly. He was a gangly boy, with large brown eyes and a button nose still that of a child's. His hair was a soft brown and curled into pretty little ringlets underneath his greasy cloth cap. Obviously a waif, he touched my heart as he sat there, desperate and forlorn. Calling for someone to get me the necessary things to stitch the cut and quench the blood flow I was once again confronted with Doctor Hayward.

Taking in the situation, he left and came back moments later with all that was needed to vet the youngster. Holding the boy, so he could not budge Hayward soothingly rubbed the child's chest, while I began my painful administrations. The child bore it with stoic heroism. 

“So, and now tell me what has happened,” I prompted.

“I truly cannot say, Madam. I walked alongside the stream in that little park around the corner from here and suddenly was struck against the head.”

“What have you been doing in the park at this time of day?” Hayward asked. “Should you not be at home?”

“The street is my home, sir. I sometimes sleep in the old dovecote there – it's easy to climb up and it is really comfortable and warm.”

“And you crawl in through one of these tiny holes?”

“Well, I ain't exactly chubby.”

“No, you are not,” Hayward admitted, looking at the boy.

“Have you seen anybody?”

“Only shadows.”

“I think we should put him in bed, Miss, don't you agree?”

I chose to ignore his subtle disrespect. He had been helpful when it was needed and I was too tired for another argument, the lack of sleep from the previous night and the night before catching up on me. Nodding in agreement, I helped the still drowsy boy up and to his feet, while Hayward excused himself and left the house through the front door, seemingly wanting to catch a breath of fresh air, as he took neither hat nor coat with him.

Undressing the waif was tedious work. He wore an astonishing amount of clothing and when I had finally managed to strip him down to his drawers I could easily count his ribs, so thin was he.

“Have you eaten anything today?” I asked him. As I had expected, he answered in the negative.

“Put this on and crawl into bed, I'll get you something.”

I handed him a clean and crisp nightshirt that was several sizes too big for him and picked up his clothes from the floor, dropping them onto one of the chairs scattering the large and dimly lit room.

As I returned he had followed my orders, lying in bed, the covers pulled close around him and his eyes already drooping. 

“There is some nice hot broth for you.”

His eyes widened with delight, and despite his sleepiness, and the slight concussion he had sustained, he sat bolt upright, eagerly taking the bowl of soup from me. 

“Thank you, madam.” he managed to say, between two spoons full of what to him must appear like a feast.

“What is your name?” I inquired.

“Tom. Just that.”

“No surname?”

“I never use it.” his young and handsome face grew grave, assuming an earnestness that was well beyond his years. Knowing that most of the children living on and off the streets had a very good and very sad reason to do so, I did not inquire any further. When he had finished his meal, I tucked him in, gently caressing his bruised head, my heart flying out to him.

xxx

Once more I glanced at my watch, but the inspector was no-where in sight. I was slightly annoyed, yet knowing that the man presumably had a very good reason not to be punctual. It was not, as if he was not working hard and I knew from what Sherlock had told me, that the Winchester inspector I had first approached, was anything but cooperative.

Restlessly I walked around the ward, looking once again at the many little creatures tucked into their cots, most of them sleeping when suddenly I heard a commotion outside.

“Oh, thank God you are here!” Rhea Hayward exclaimed, out of breath.

As I had stepped out of the ward, the entrance door had been flung open once again and she had rushed in, her hair curling down from underneath her fashionable hat that now sat on her head askew as if in her run the hat pin had not been able to hold it in place very much.

“What is it, Rhea?” I asked alarmed, hurrying towards her.

“Little Rodger! He is very poorly and I came here to fetch you straight away. Please hurry!” she sobbed, reaching out her hands in a pleading gesture. 

“My sister in law is so frightened that he will die. She asked me to get you immediately. I know you have promised to stay here till that inspector escorts you to the hotel, but please, I don't think we can afford to lose one minute.”

This certainly was a good enough reason, to break my promise. How could I not answer this plea for help under these circumstances? Grabbing my coat and hat, I followed her out of the building, slipping my coat on as I ran after her, not bothering with my hat and just keeping it in my hand. In our haste we almost collided with a messenger boy, that was about to climb the stairs we descended.


	12. Joy and Sorrow (Watson)

Joy and sorrow

 

“Poison?” maid and mother asked in unison.

“But he is suffering from the same illness the Winchester children are suffering from. - That is what Alastair told me yesterday.” the lady continued. 

“He was here?” Holmes looked up from his task, holding the spoon halfway to the boy's mouth.

“Yes, like every Friday,” Was the reply.

At her words the detective fell silent once more, taking in this new bit of information, slowly resuming his task.

Carefully and with an astonishing amount of patience, Holmes coaxed the baby to swallow the medicine. The two women, who had been about to voice their protest only moments before, were now silenced by the detective's gentle care for the child alone. 

“I have sent for Doctor Stephens, as you requested, Milady.” Sherlock Holmes finally spoke, when he had administered the last spoon full and had put it aside, while the little Lord was falling asleep in the strange man's arms, head resting against the chest as he was still held upright to ease his breathing.

“Thank you. And now, would you please be so kind as to explain what you meant by 'counteracting the poison'?” Lady Amaris had sat down on a footstool opposite Holmes, looking up at him with her intense blue eyes, her tone of voice being much the same as previously with her daughter.

“Exactly that, Milady,” he replied, with decidedly less obligingness than the girl had done. “That your son is being poisoned and that the charcoal helps to counteract the poison, flushing it out of his system.”

“But my brother in law – who is a doctor and my father in laws physician have both agreed that the child is suffering from the same mysterious disease those children in Winchester are suffering from.”

“And so he does I am afraid, just that it was established a few days since, that these children are not suffering from a disease, but are being poisoned with arsenic. I have been called in by the very doctor, you have sent for.” Holmes informed her and then as an afterthought: “Who, by the way, did recommend Doctor Stephens to you?”

“Doctor Coward, that is my father in laws, personal consultant.”

“Not Doctor Hayward?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“No, not Alastair, perhaps he did not know about Doctor Stephens.”

“He does not only know about Doctor Stephens, but he also would have known where to find her.”

The lady seemed surprised.

“Are you certain?”

“I am because he has been working alongside Doctor Stephens for the past few days – ever since the seeming epidemic became public after the death of Peter Granville's daughter. He is the merchant and townsman referred to by the papers.”

She stared at us, jaw dropping, shaking her head ever so slightly.

“He never said a word.”

The child was by now sleeping soundly, the breathing eased and a tint of colour back to his pudgy little cheeks. Holmes still held him close, obviously pondering on something.

“When did the first symptoms show?” he asked after a while.

“Four days ago. But only very lightly, he cramped a bit – but we had put that down to colic and kept his stomach warm and snug. It got better during the day, but then at night, he started again, much worse.”

“How is he fed?” 

“I nurse him.” the nurse answered.

“No bottles, cows milk or artificial teats?” Holmes inquired.

“No, there is no need for that, I would have enough milk for two babes.” the nurse answered unabashed, pointing at her well-endowed chest.

“That is odd, indeed.”

“What is odd?”

“It is odd, Watson, that all the children in Winchester that have fallen ill, have been fed on cows milk from bottles using cow's teats. Apart from two – Peter Granville's daughter and little Master Hayward here.” he looked down, smiling warmly at the tiny creature in his arms.

“What difference would it make?”

“A great one. Hopkins and I agree – and Harriet does also, that the poison was somehow applied by the teats. There are various reasons to suggest this as the most likely way of dispensing the poison. Now, the Granville nurse used rubber ones and you are not using any at all. So how was the poison applied in these instances?”

“Could it not be, you are wrong?” the lady asked, watching her son slumber peacefully.

“No.”

“And what if the poison was not dispensed by the teats at all, but by something different?” I suggested.

“That, of course, would be a possibility. But then, how was it done? Those children in Winchester – apart from Eloise Granville, have nothing in common with this little fellow here. - Apart from...” he trailed off.

“Apart from, what?” I dared to ask, after a few moments of expectant silence.

“Doctor Hayward comes here every Friday, you said?” he turned towards the lady again.

“He does. My father in law, as you must have realised is very infirm and taking care of his businesses is quite beyond him. - Since Julian...” she swallowed hard, the tears in her eyes threatening once more to flow freely against her will. “Since Julian has died Alastair comes here every week, taking care of everything that neither the old gentleman nor Lady Parthenia or I can take care of ourselves.”

“Is he in the habit of coming into the nursery?”

“No, he generally tries to avoid the children. And me for that matter. Had it not been for Rodgers discomfort, he would not have come up here yesterday either. But I asked him for his opinion. Doctor Coward is a very excellent man, but he is more accustomed to old people and their maladies than to those of children or babies.”

“When you asked him, what exactly did he do?” Holmes' face was eager now, his whole body tense in expectation of the sought after information.

“He came up here immediately without hesitation as soon as he had heard that Rodger was sick – we had met in the entrance hall, where I have been waiting for him, admittedly - and as soon as he saw the child he realised that Rodger suffered from the same symptoms that these other poor children had suffered from.”

“Was he surprised?”

“Very much so. He was shocked, to say the least, blaming himself for bringing the disease into the house.”

“That is what he said?” Holmes dug deeper.

“Yes. - 'This is all my fault, I have brought that on my little Rodger.' - I believe were his words.”

“What did he do?”

“The same thing you have just done. Feeding the baby dissolved charcoal – but with less patience, I have to admit, but alas, unlike you, he has no children of his own. It took but a moment and Rodger looked decidedly better - as he does now, too.”

Her eyes still rested on her son, a small and relieved smile playing on her lovely lips. Holmes though looked slightly taken aback by her false assumptions. Assumptions though that were not as far-fetched as Holmes might have thought at that moment. Having seen my friend deal with children on several occasions, I frequently had been astonished by his aptitude in handling them.

“Anyway, Doctor Stephens should be here soon,” he remarked, getting up carefully and handing the boy to the waiting nurse, who put him down into his cradle, gently rocking it from side to side.

Walking up and down the large and well-heated room, his chin sunk onto his breast, no-one dared to disturb Holmes' train of thought. It was obvious that he had caught up on something, and from his behaviour now, I could fathom, that it had been in contradiction to what he had expected.

“Is there anything I can offer you?” the mistress finally broke the silence after a quarter of an hour.

As if waking from a trance, Holmes looked at her with an almost confused expression.

“A room where I might be able to smoke a pipe or two would be greatly appreciated,” he replied calmly, getting his tobacco purse and pipe out of his pocket already.

She looked surprised, but then led him to the adjoining room.

“Thank you, Milady.” I could hear him say, while the lady left him there on his own, softly closing the door behind her. 

“What an odd man!” she said in my direction, but not without warmth.

“That he is. But you will find his behaviour less queer once you realise that he does nothing without a reason.” 

It was then, that the baby began to cry lightly, waking from his slumber. Trying to feed him, the nurse picked him up again. He eagerly latched onto her, drinking with fervour.

“There, there, here is a good boy,” the nurse laughed at his zeal. “He has hardly drunken anything today, he sure must be hungry.”

“Seems as if the charcoal is working already. Just as it did with Alastair,” the young mother smiled, as happy about her sons returned appetite than the wet nurse was.

“Why did you not use it yourself, if you had some lying around and it had previously worked with your brother in law?” I could not help myself asking.

“Because the next day his – you know – bowel movement was so very dark and Doctor Coward was afraid that he was bleeding lightly, internally I mean. He was quite alarmed. And so I did not dare give him more. What if it weakened him more and he would get more poorly from it. But then he looked so dire this evening, that as soon as I heard the carriage on the gravel outside, I came running downstairs in the hope Doctor Stephens had at last arrived. It was quite a disappointment when it was only you. - But then I heard, you were a doctor also, and I decided that you were better than none at all.”

“I can assure you, that after taking charcoal, black dejection is completely normal.” I told her and then asked as an afterthought: “Did Doctor Coward know, the child had been given charcoal?”

“I do not know. I don't think I have told him. Did you?” she asked the servant, who shook her head vigorously.

xxx

It was a good while later when Holmes at last returned into the nursery, his face still tense and his eyes fixed on his watch. The rest of us had gotten into a comfortable state of sleepiness, the nurse once more in her rocking chair, the lady on a settee across the room, little Rodger in his cot and myself on the stool the lady had vacated, leaning against a chest of drawers with my back.

“She should be here already,” he mumbled.

“Who?” Lady Amaris asked interestedly.

“Doctor Stephens.”

“She?”

“Yes, she.”

“So that is the mysterious Harriet you have spoken off then.”

“Yes.”

“Ah! I have been wondering, who she was.”

In this moment, the sleeping child began squirming and grew restless, his tiny fists rowing as he dreamt briskly. The lady herself got up, trying to appease him with his comforter. With a few hasty steps, Holmes was at her side, prying the item from her hands.

“Excuse me!” she shrieked, waking the baby in the process.

“Where did you get this?” my companion asked her, ignoring the babies cries. Walking over to the gas chandelier to have a closer look at the dummy he turned the light up, annoying the mother even more.

“I got it from my sister in law.” she answered, her voice shaking with anger, which Holmes also chose to ignore.

“Rhea Hayward?”

“Yes.”

“Did she give it to you in person?”

“No, Alastair brought it with him, three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks?”

“Yes.”

Once more, Holmes seemed taken aback, before his face lit up again and he inquired:

“When did you use it for the first time?”

“That was about six days ago, Sir.” the nurse piped up.

“So it cannot be the pacifier.” I mused. But Holmes had taken out his magnifying glass, examining it closely.

“Oh, it can very well be, Watson.” he cried. “Come and have a look at this!”

He handed me over both magnifying glass as well as pacifier and pointed at a tiny hole at the bottom of the latter.

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. 

“What is it?” both women asked as one.

“There is a hole in its bottom and inside I can make out tiny amounts of a crystallised substance,” he retorted, leaving the room in shocked silence.

“It just needed some time to dissolve and seep into the babies mouth,” I concluded. Holmes nodded in agreement.

“And I bet it was the same with Eloise Granville.”

xxx

It was already several minutes past nine when we heard the soft ringing of the bell downstairs announcing the arrival of Holmes' wife. Lady Mansfield got up in expectation of the specialist doctor she relied on, even though the child was already getting better by the minute and the mystery had basically been solved and a remedy been found.

“Thank God, I was seriously beginning to worry,” I heard Holmes whisper into my ear. He indeed looked worried and I had seen him fidgeting with his wedding band, which seemed to develop into a new habit of his.

“Why would you worry, the child is better already, thanks to your administrations,” I assured him.

“I am not worrying over the child, I have been worrying over Harriet,” he replied. “She should have been here about an hour ago.”

“Perhaps there has been an emergency,” I suggested.

“Perhaps...” he trailed off, looking up and towards the door, all colour draining from his face the instance that it opened. There in the doorway stood no Harriet Holmes, but the young and grave-looking Inspector Hopkins.


	13. Three times is purpose (Watson)

Three times is purpose

Staggering backwards, Holmes leaned against the wall, unable to keep himself upright, his whole frame shaking with suppressed worry. Never in my whole life, had I seen an expression on my friends face, that was as heartbreaking as the silent desperation spreading across it at the very moment his eyes settled upon the young official. But it lasted only an instant and quickly Holmes' face had once more regained the unreadable expression it generally bore and he had straightened his body again, though still leaning against his support. 

As quick as the moment had passed, at that moment I understood. - He had not solely married Harriet Stephrey out of necessity – he had married her because he had wanted to do so. Because he cared for her. I remembered the shrewd expression on his face two days ago when she had offered him her hand and realised that there and then he had been falling in love fast and hard. I, who had never seen my friend being in love, had not recognised it then, now I was certain. Holmes, of course, would never admit to it, but that was unnecessary, as he stood there shaken to the core, every fibre of him bore testimony to his honest and deep emotions. Sherlock Holmes the bachelor was no more.

“What has happened?” Holmes asked the man quietly. The young inspector looked taken aback, not having expected this, his eyes darting around the spacious room.

“I went to the hospital to pick up your wife, as agreed, but she had already left, having been called away to an emergency shortly before my arrival, as I was told. I have to confess, I was late, having been detained at the police station by Inspector Macarthur from the Winchester police. Apparently this Peter Granville had filed a complaint about our inquiries and Macarthur thought it necessary to make his position clear – in many more words than would have been necessary. I arrived at the hospital at about half seven instead of half six. - Then I saw your telegram on the doctor's desk and thought she might be on her way here. So I boarded the next train possible – having missed the previous one by mere minutes or else I would have been earlier and followed her suit.” 

“Damn it!” Holmes slammed his fist against the wall in frustration, but it was also this anger that brought him back to his old self. He stepped away from the wall at last and though his face was still very pale, I knew the hunt was on.

“After all, Holmes, there could have been a real emergency that has called Mrs Holmes away.” I tried to reason. “When we arrive back in Winchester your wife might be already waiting for you, wondering where we all are. You know, coincidences happen.”

“No, I have had enough of coincidences. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, Watson, but thrice is purpose. - Hopkins, when is the next train leaving for Winchester?”

“The last train is leaving in a little more than twenty minutes.” the man answered contritely, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, not daring to look my friend in the eye. “I doubt we will manage to catch it.”

I could see another curse form on my friend thin lips, but he did not vocalise it.

All the while the lady of the house had sat in silence, staring agog at the scene unfolding in front of her. Getting up from her seat, she rang the bell even before turning toward Holmes.

“That won't do. I'll make sure you'll catch the train and if you'll miss it, the carriage will bring you all the way to Winchester. It's not very far. It should take you no more than two hours,” and giving a small smile she added: “It's the least I can do.”

A maid had answered her ring almost immediately and was gone as quickly, her footsteps hurrying down the corridor.

Holmes, bowed his head curtly and then stormed out of the room, all but running to pick up his coat and wait for the carriage. Bowing towards the mistress likewise, I followed suit, Hopkins hard on my heels. 

“So you have not been looking for her?” Holmes asked the official, his voice as firm as ever at the prospect of actively being able to do something after all.

“I did not even think that it might be necessary,” he admitted, head hanging in shame. “I had been so certain she had come here, that only when I saw your face, I knew something was not right.”

“There was a very good reason, why I did not want Harriet to walk around town on her own, Hopkins. Her life depends on it. She has gotten into somebodies way and his arm reaches far, very far. And he caught her with the one thing he knew would entice her to leave the hospital, without giving it much of a second thought.”

“I don't know what to say...” the young official stammered a little out of breath, as we stood on the front porch, waiting.

“How about nothing, presently.” Holmes pressed out from between his teeth, but not unforgiving.

It was within very few minutes that the carriage arrived at the front and we hardly had taken a seat when the groom whipped the horses and drove them towards the station in undamped speed.

xxx

We arrived at the station just in time, the train about to leave. But the illustrious carriage was reason enough for the station master, not to lay too much stress on punctuality and so waited, whistle halfway to his mouth, till we had climbed in.

The whole of the journey, Holmes was lost in his thoughts, his chin sunk onto his chest, his pipe dangling from between his lips giving the only testimony, that he had not fallen asleep, as time and time again he stuffed it, the red embers of tobacco gleaming ominously in the dark. 

About an hour and a half after our departure from Warnborough Park, it now being well past eleven at night, we reached the ancient city. An eerie and foreboding silence enveloped the empty streets and alleyways we all but ran through. A slight and uncomfortable drizzle had set in, soaking us slowly, but mercilessly. We stopped at a stately half-timber building on the high street which turned out to be the hotel Holmes and his wife stayed in. Running upstairs in the faint hope of finding her there safe and sound in their shared room, Sherlock Holmes took two steps at a time, not caring if he roused any other guests, while the inspector and I waited downstairs not wanting to intrude. We did not wait for long though, as only moments later the detective came back down, his head hanging and his shoulders slouching, the small hope he had harboured, to find Harriet Holmes upstairs, gone.

“She is not here, and there is no sign she has returned since the morning,” he informed us, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke, his face hidden by the darkness surrounding us.

“And now?” I inquired.

“The hospital, obviously.”

Again Holmes was more running than walking, his long legs carrying him towards his destination quickly. The hospital was a lot smaller than I had imagined. A bland brick building, two stories high, raised above street level by a low basement, its windows barred and grimy, where the top windows, illuminated still, where neatly kept and clean. The three of us climbed up the few stone steps to the entrance door, Holmes pushing it open, holding his breath in expectation, only to be disappointed once more.

A young and otherworldly woman came towards us, her hair a mess of rich burgundy coloured hair, her dress covered almost completely by a large pinafore, childlike and dainty. She looked at Holmes in surprise, or rather perhaps in alarm.

“Mrs Hayward,” he greeted her.

“Mr Holmes. Whatever are you doing here at this time of night? Is something the matter?”

Her manner was engaging and warm, her face compassionate and lovely in a pre-Raphaelite manner. She was a tiny creature, not even reaching the shoulder of the tall man before her. 

“Have you seen Harriet?” 

“She has gone back to the hotel a long time since.”

“When was that?” Holmes dug deeper, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Oh, sometime past eight.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I believe...” 

“Belief has nothing to do with it. Are you sure, or are you not?”

The young lady winced at his harshness. “I am sure it was between eight and nine o'clock,” she answered again, a hint of annoyance and fear flickering upon her features.

Hopkins was about to say something but was stopped by the desperate husband.

“If she has left for the hotel, I suggest we go back there.” his voice was forcedly calm as he said it.

I stared at my friend in disbelieve as he walked out of the door already, holding it open for Hopkins and myself, leaving the enchanting woman once again to her lonely vigil. With knitted brows, he walked back towards the main road, but passing the hotel, turning once again into another side lane and a few moments later we reached a small police station.

“I suggest Hopkins, you send a note out, about my missing wife – tell every constable to keep an eye open for her – and now let us get our facts together.”

Entering the dimly lit building, Hopkins led the way to a small room with a similarly small table in the middle of and a couple of chairs around it. 

“So what is it we know?” I asked, taking off my damp coat and hat.

“We know that it all started with children being poisoned.” Holmes began, taking out his pipe once more. “We also know that it was kept a secret by the officials up to the moment that Eloise Granville died. So, we now have to ask ourselves, what have these children in common?”

“They all live in Winchester.”

“And all within the same area of town.”

Hopkins and I remarked.

“Yes, but there the similarity ends. Or does it?” Holmes took a drag from his pipe, before carrying on: “We know that all children, apart from the Granville child had been fed cow's or goat milk with the aid of cow's teats. We have seen though, how little Rodger Hayward was dispensed the poison – via his rubber pacifier. Now, I am pretty certain, that if we looked closer, we would find either such a pacifier at the Granville household or that the nurse has switched from the rubber teats to the cheaper cow's ones.”

“But why would she do so?” I could not help asking.

“Perhaps she was just greedy. The rubber ones last a lot longer than the other ones, but eventually, they also break. But these are only assumptions without any proof – yet.”

“So the death of Eloise Granville could be a mere coincidence?”

“Perhaps.”

“Holmes, who do you think is doing all this?”

“Alastair Hayward.”

“But...” Hopkins tried to argue but quickly thought the better of it.

“He is the only one that connects all the dots, Hopkins. He also happens to have a motive.”

“A motive to kill all these children?” I was astounded.

“Yes,” my friend replied matter of factly. “It was little Rodger Hayward that proved to be the last missing clue. Only Alastair Hayward would be interested in killing the child, so he would be next in line to inherit his father's fortune.”

“But the Earl is not even dead.”

“What difference does it make? According to everyone, the Earl of Warnborough is at death's door. Another day or two won't make a difference to a man such as Hayward. But once the inheritance has passed over to his nephew it will get difficult for the uncle to regain it.”

“That is devious!” 

“It is.”

“But it has a flaw,” I remarked. “Why would Hayward dispense charcoal if he knew that it would counteract the effects of the poison and hence his attempts in poisoning his nephew?”

“Well, I have thought about that, too, and the answer is fairly simple. He knows how the poison is dispensed and that eventually, the dose would be lethal. But if he did everything in his power to make it appear as if he is fighting for the boy's life, who would ever dare suggest he tried to poison him in the first place?”

It made shocking sense. Who would think such, when the uncle had done seemingly everything humanly possible to prevent the untimely death of the nephew?

“And what would be the motive to kill all the other children?”

“Very simple – he, of course, would be too obvious a suspect if the little one had simply been poisoned, but if there was an epidemic, killing infants, little Rodger Hayward would just be another victim of this mysterious illness. He uses his wife as an accessory, misusing her charity work for his own deadly purpose - we have heard how he is mistreating her. Harriet also said, she had seen bruises on the woman's wrist and neck,” his voice broke ever so slightly at the mention of his wives name.

“But why did you not say anything any sooner? We could have reeled the man in already,” Inspector Hopkins finally dared to ask.

“Because, Hopkins, being a horrible husband is not a crime. Fortunately… - A husband is legally permitted, to beat his wife and make her docile. Rape under the marriage license is no criminal offence – moreover it is completely acceptable for a man to force his rights. If for every violent husband I have encountered in my line of work, I had earned ten pounds, I could consider myself a fairly wealthy man.”

“But the son of the Earl of Warnborough?”

“Oh come now, Hopkins, fiendishness knows no rank.”

The inspector opened his mouth to protest but thought the better of it and instead got up from the table to stretch himself.

“And still, I cannot help the feeling, that I am missing something. It is no good to be involved in one's own cases,” Holmes mused, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, one hand drumming the tabletop nervously.

xxx

We had talked like this for about twenty minutes when a constable burst into the room. Holmes looking at the man expectantly, his face torn between hope and dreading the news once more, held his pipe, he had just wanted to lit, expectantly, halfway to his mouth.

“Sir, we have just pulled a man out of Millbrook, right behind the large dovecote on the green.”

“A man?!” 

“Yes, sir, a man.”

“Is he alive?”

“Barely, sir. Has lost a lot of blood and he is almost frozen stiff. It is quite a miracle he is alive at all.”

“Where is he now?”

“He was brought to Doctor Fraser since his practice was closest.”

“Any idea who the man is?”

“Not yet, sir, his head was bashed in and his whole face was smeared with blood. But he sure is no poor man.”

“What makes you think so?” Holmes, who till now had sat in silence, inquired.

“He wears a fine coat with an Astrakhan collar and a sapphire tie pin, his hat he must have lost.”

“A sapphire tie pin shaped like this?” Holmes took out his notebook, drawing a floral shape with his already short and rather blunt pencil.

The constable looked at the drawing than at my friend in astonishment.

“How did you know, sir?”

But Holmes did not answer him, instead, he slipped his coat back on, grabbed his hat and beckoned us to follow.

“Who is the man, Holmes?”

“Alastair Hayward.”

“But what could possibly the meaning of this?”

“It means someone has got to him before we did.”


	14. A hat and a handkerchief (Watson)

A hat and a handkerchief 

We followed the constable to the designated practise, finding a tired and worn practitioner in his dressing gown, that desperately tried to warm his patient by wrapping hot compresses around the injured man's limbs. Hayward was by now half conscious, but unable to utter anything of any sense. His eyes were glassy and his forehead showed the first signs of an impending fever. He was in a pitiable state and his injuries, though not quite as severe as the policeman had made them out to be, where considerable. His head was badly bruised and the laceration on the forehead looked ghastly enough but had ceased bleeding. His rib cage also seemed bruised and one of the lower ribs was partially fractured as we where informed, giving him trouble with every breath he took. His left wrist and hand were broken and his feet both seemed sprained, swollen and twisted. The cold cramping did nothing to relieve the pain his injuries must ultimately cause him. On the contrary – every spasm brought new waves of agony and faintness on the man, making him groan and whimper.

“How is he?” Holmes asked, with little compassion in his voice, looking at the man in disdain.

“All right considering the circumstances. I try to get him warm enough so he'll stop shivering and cramping, which might still take a while. Currently, it is impossible for me, to set his feet and hand right, but alas, the splint I did manage to put on his hand, should at least keep the bones from dislocating any further. He must have been in the water for some time, considering the state he is in. I'll do what I can, but I cannot keep him here.”

The doctor gestured around his small practice. It consisted of only a tiny waiting room and this one single consulting room, which held a large desk, a couple of chairs and the stretcher on which the ill-fated man now lay. 

“If we only knew who he is, we could return him to his family.” he carried on. “He is in a bad state obviously, but not in so bad a condition, that he cannot be moved to somewhere more suitable. I tried to ask his name, but all he did mutter was 'Find her!', 'There's danger' and 'Holmes' – So I assume, that this is Mr Holmes. But what he means by his other remarks, I do not know and I have no idea, how to contact his family, as I do not know any family of that name around here.”

“His name is not Holmes. Mine is. This Gentleman there is Doctor Alastair Hayward.” Holmes told him. “I think, we might just send someone over to the charity hospital and get his wife. In all likeliness, she is still there.”

“No!” the man in question gasped, his teeth still shattering and his whole body shaking convulsively, but his eyes, though still glassy, were alert and something like fear had sprung up in them.

We all stared at him. Holmes stepped forward, bending down over the patient and the now frantic man grasped the detective's lapel with his uninjured hand, pulling himself up with astonishing strength and energy, considering his condition, till he was able to look into the eye of the other man.

“They have got her!” he whispered. “I tried to… But they knocked her out. You have to find her!”

“I can assure you, your wife is up and well, Sir – but....”

The injured man cut him short: “Not Rhea – Doctor Stephens, man!”

Holmes stared at the man, whispering: “Where is she and who has got her?”

“I don't know who the man is, I think I should know him, but I just cannot remember – it was too dark for me to recognise him - but he is with...” it took all his strength to finish his sentence. “He is in league with my wife.”

He was now sobbing, still clinging to Holmes.

“I have done so much wrong! How am I ever to set it right again?”

“Pull yourself together!” Holmes reprimanded him, but in a much gentler tone than he had used with the man before, while carefully taking Hayward's hand, prying it loose from his overcoat and helping the man to lay down comfortably again.

“I think we now know, where we have to start looking for our murderer.– Right under our noses, in the hospital. We'll send a servant to bring this man home to his own house.” 

Holmes' eyes fell onto a police issue oil lamp on the practitioner's desk, where it obviously had been forgotten by the men, who had delivered Hayward.

“I'll take this, we might need it.”

He picked it up and wheeled around, almost running out of the house and through the dark and quiet roads while Hopkins and I tried to keep up with him. Leaving the constable to organise the said servant.

xxx

Once again we entered the inornate brick building, the lights inside now lowered but still bright enough to make ones way around. It did not take long to establish, that Rhea Hayward was not in the building any more. Not surprising at this late hour and as the night nurse told us, it had been rather unusual that Rhea Hayward had been there at all when we had met her. She usually was last of the volunteers to go, but hardly ever past six in the evening. Tonight she had left shortly after we ourselves had left the hospital and since then, she had not been seen. But at any rate, we had looked into every room and into the small courtyard behind. She had indeed left.

Apart from the sparse information, the nurse, a large woman but short, not unlike the nursemaid Lady Amaris employed, had nothing more to tell us. She looked apologetically from one to the other, her eyes finally resting on my friend. 

“I have been feeding and changing babies ever since I arrived here. There should have been another nurse on duty since the hospital is that overflowing, but she did not turn up. Mrs Hayward helped me with a few young ones and told me to call for one of the midwives upstairs in case things got out of hand. But they did not, so far. All children are fairly well and I like it busy – it makes the night pass away more quickly.”

“So, Mrs Hayward had not been expected to be here?”

“No, not at all. I was quite surprised. But I thought she might have forgotten something. She did seem a bit distracted. But I was so busy, I am not quite sure about that.”

Her friendly face glowed with zealousness and as another babe began to stir in the opposite corner of the large room – something the neither of us had even noticed, she bustled away, leaving us to our own devices.

“Whom are you looking for?” a small boy of about eight, with a bandaged head asked us quietly, as we passed him, sitting up in his bed drowsily. The rustle of our search and the quiet conversation with the nurse had woken him up and alert as any street urchin, he had taken in the situation in a nick.

“Mrs Hayward,” Holmes replied. “Have you seen her?”

“Is that the lady with the brown hair and the friendly eyes?” the boy asked keenly. 

Despite the darkness, I could rather feel than see a small smile spread across my friends face.

“No, she's got red hair and is smaller than the lady you have in mind.”

“Oh, that one! - I don't like her. She's got an evil eye, has she.”

“What do you mean by that?” Hopkins interjected.

“I cannot tell, Sir. It is just, that she looked and sounded familiar, and it was not in a good sense. The way she glanced at me, made my blood run cold. Her smile was insincere. When she came back later, I dared not to sleep, in case she would come over without me noticing and I did not want to be close to her at all, lest alone when not wide awake.”

“What did you fear she would do?” the inspector asked him further.

“I don't know, but certainly nothing good. She came over a couple of times and every time she saw I was awake, she turned around again. - As if she was stealthing me and just looked for an opportunity to catch me unawares.”

He looked a bit ashamed at this statement, not able to explain his feelings properly, but Holmes to his astonishment took him seriously.

“What did she do, when she did not try to sneak up on you?”

“She spoke to the night nurse shortly and then proceeded to feed one of the little ones. - I think the nurse might have asked her to do so, as she was busy with another babe.” 

Holmes nodded to indicate that that had been the case.

“And which one was fed by Mrs Hayward? Do you know that perhaps?”

The child pushed aside the sheets and got up, limping over to the small cot. The baby slumbered deeply and without any signs of being unwell. All three of us let out a sigh of relief.

“The dark-haired woman was not around at that time?”

“No.”

“What about Doctor Hayward?” Holmes suddenly changed the subject. “Have you met him, also?”

“Is he a tall man with brown hair and a beard?”

“Yes.”

“He held me, while I was getting my stitches, which really hurt and then left, but came back, while the nice lady had gone to get me something to eat – he walked in there.” The boy pointed at the doctor's office.

“And then?”

“Then I got my soup and was just falling asleep when the red-haired woman came in saying something about an emergency on which the other lady took her coat from that hook over there and left with her.” he pointed at a coat rack next to the door to the entrance room.

“And Doctor Hayward?”

“He came back out after several minutes, also wearing his overcoat and hat and then looked around, saw I was awake still came over and asked me, where Doctor Stephens was – I think that must have been the friendly woman's name, I told him that I did not know anything of a doctor of that name, but that the brown haired lady had been called away and had left with another one with red hair.”

“What did he do then?”

“He swore like a drayman and hurried out of the door.”

“So Hayward was telling the truth so far.” Holmes quietly stated. “It was his wife and not him, who lured Harriet away and it was clearly without his knowledge. I have been completely wrong in my conclusions, Watson. Hayward is not our culprit, he has been set up. As were we.”

“And now?” I wondered, thinking about the beaten up man and the missing woman. Looking down at the heavily bandaged boy, I could not help but ask, what had happened to him.

“I cannot really say, Sir,” he replied, looking confused. “I was walking towards the dovecote to sleep in there when I heard a creaking sound and footsteps and suddenly a shadow was hovering over me – I mean no ghost, sir, but the shadow of a man. He had something like a cudgel in his hand and before I could run away, he had beat me and kicked me against the rough stone of the cote. I could hear a woman cackle, saying something like: 'Oh these waifs are such a nuisance, are they not, dearest?'. I was almost knocked out, but not quite and when they had gone, I limped towards the hospital as my head would not stop bleeding and I was scared I would bleed to death.”

“The dovecote, again.” Holmes cried out. “Well done, Watson!”

Looking at the frail boy, who by now shivered in the draughty air of the badly heated ward, wearing only his nightshirt, but neither socks nor slippers, Holmes picked him up, carrying him back into his bed and tucking him in.

“You said, you were not completely knocked out – could you hear any more of their conversation?”

“Yes – but it did not make sense. My head was hurting and I think I might have gotten something wrong. He said something about a trap and lure – and that it was so much nicer since the nagging old one was packed up and gone. The lady just laughed. I am not sure what was supposed to be so funny, but I felt really sick to the stomach and my head hurt like hell.”

In the dim light, I could see Holmes clench his fist in anger.

“What is your name? You have helped us very much, young man, and I want to know whom I have to thank, but now I suggest, you close your eyes and sleep.”

“Tom, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

My friend's voice had been composed, but I could see in his normally so inexpressive face, that he was angered. But also that he had gotten a clue from what the boy had told him and that Hopkins and I had not been able to make out, as we had stayed behind, halfway towards the exit.

xxx

In the time we had spent inside, the air had gotten considerably colder and a light gale had begun to join the drizzle. It was now as uncomfortable a night as was possible. Putting up our collars, we followed Holmes once again through the gaslit streets and alleyways till we reached an open space.

The small park was basically divided into two parts, separated by a little stream that flowed merrily along, burbling and glistening in the lights of the few street lamps dotting the green. In some little distance, an oddly shaped building stood, towering over the flat expanse of the lawn, right behind it, a wall running all along one side of the common, bordering it off to the private gardens beyond. As we crossed the narrow cast iron bridge the ominous looking building became more and more distinct and soon it proofed to be the very medieval dovecote we had heard of.

Holmes finally lit the lantern he had been carrying, not without difficulty, as the wind blew out the match more than once, but making it possible at last to take in the surroundings more clearly, but also increasing the shadows.

The dovecote was an ancient building made from quarry stone and timber with a slanting slate roof, giving it the overall appearance of a beehive kiln. Next to it, the little brook, that I now realised had almost been the end of Alastair Hayward, innocently flowed, it's gentle burbling a reminder of the time passing.

While I looked around me, Holmes kept his eyes on the ground, kneeling down at the base of the cote, he pointed at a dark smudge about a foot above ground, sheltered by a protrusion of the roof.

“I presume this is, where the boy had hit his head,” he remarked, picking up something I could not recognise. “He has lost his scarf, look.” Holmes held it up, before stuffing the dirty item into his pocket. Carrying on in his task, slowly and in half circles walking away from the dovecote, sometimes kneeling down again, taking in every possible trail, while the official detective and I stood still, knowing better than to disturb my friend in his work.

“Not good...” I heard Holmes mutter before turning towards us. “The men who rescued Hayward have basically destroyed all evidence. I cannot discern which are the ones that were left by Harriet and her abductors. Damn it! - All I have found is this hat pin of which I am sure belongs to my wife.”

“Holmes!” Hopkins cried suddenly. “There is something over there. Lying on the grass.”

His face seemed alert in the yellow light of the lantern as he pointed at something on the ground a little further away from the dovecote and close to the rough stone wall, opposite from the point where Hayward had been found. Holmes got up from his knees and turned around, walking slowly towards the indicated spot, his eyes still fixed mainly on the ground and his face growing paler by the moment. He seemed as if in a trance.

“Holmes?” I asked, but did not get a reply. “Holmes?”

“Watson, look at this. - They dragged her along this piece of lawn, see, how her heels have dug into the soft ground? She must have fought them violently,” his voice was almost indiscernible as he pointed at the marks on the ground. 

“But what is that?” I pointed at the thing the inspector had indicated.

“It is her hat, Watson.”

Holmes had reached the spot where it lay and bend down to pick it up, his hands shaking, the lantern forgotten on the ground at his feet as he just stared at the simple broad-rimmed hat with the plain bunch of light coloured silk roses adorning its rim and the narrow dusky pink hatband. For a moment no-one dared to say a word, but then, with an outcry of anger, Holmes threw away the hat, clenching his fists, cursing under his breath. The hat landed in the water with a soft splatter. 

“I'll get those bastards, Watson. – I'll get them! No-one does that to my wife and goes unpunished.”

Hopkins and I still did not know what to say, and so, unable to utter a word of solace for fear it would be unappreciated, we instead followed the unofficial detective, who by now had picked up the lantern again and once more followed the indentations in the soft muddy ground, where before the gravel footpath had proven to be such a disappointment.

The trail ran along the wall for a couple of yards, to a spot, where it was covered all in ivy – thick and heavy, hiding the stones that supported it. Only a moment later, Holmes cried out in surprise, as another item caught his attention. This time it was a white handkerchief that got entangled in the bushy branches of the ivy.

“It's hers as well,” he announced, looking at the delicate piece of cloth, with its crocheted lace trim and the embroidered initials H. S.. This time though he did not throw it away, but carefully pocketed it, stuffing it deep into his waistcoat pocket. 

“Odd...” he remarked after he had done so, looking at the wall before him, before whistling through his teeth, reaching out and pushing a curtain of ivy aside to reveal a narrow door.

“I should have expected this,” he carried on, trying to open it, but failing as it was clearly locked from the inside.

“How could you?” I dared to ask.

“Because the boy had heard a creaking sound only moments before he was beaten to a pulp. - It was this door, I am certain. Just look at its rusty iron fittings, it would certainly make a creaking noise and look, we have walked away from the brook, but basically rounded the dovecote. Only a few steps and an adult would have reached it easily.”

While Hopkins and I looked behind us, Holmes kept on glancing inquisitively at the wall before him.

“Watson, give me a hand, will you?”

“What do you want me to do?” I wondered.

“Give me a leg-up. I need to climb that wall,” he answered, taking off his overcoat, letting it slip to the ground where it lay in a crumpled heap that was soon followed by his top hat and gloves. Grabbing the ivy, he stepped into my crossed hands and those of Hopkins, who had joined me promptly and together we lifted him up high enough so Holmes could get hold of the edge of the wall and pull himself up and onto the narrow top. 

“Go, get around and try the other side.”

“But whose house is this?” I inquired.

“Peter Granville's.”

With that, he swung his legs over and a dull thud on the other side told us, he had landed on the ground there.


	15. With eyes wide open (Watson)

With eyes wide open

 

“Peter Granville? Isn't he the merchant whose baby daughter was poisoned as well?” Stanley Hopkins asked as we hurried back across the park.

“He is indeed.” was my reply as we were crossing the Millbrook once again, but in the opposite direction. Leaving the green behind us quickly, we soon reached a wide and rather grand looking street, lined with elegant Georgian and modern buildings and a few medieval timber ones, indicating that the other houses had been replacing the impractical old ones to afford more comfort to their inhabitants. 

“But…?” Hopkins looked as astonished as I had done earlier when Holmes first had introduced me to this idea but decided that his question would soon enough be answered. 

Trying to orientate ourselves, we came to a halt, looking around us, panting from the run.

“So, how do we know, which is his house in question?” the young man wondered.

I looked around me, for any indication and soon enough was certain.

“That is simple – there is the brook again, see the gap between the buildings and the bannister of the bridge? - That clearly is no garden wall. And by the distance from the brook to that door in the wall, this must be the building in question.” 

I pointed at a tall and modern townhouse. It sat a little back from the street, with an austere front garden leading up to it, fenced off by cast-iron railings and a gate that was just as foreboding with its arrowhead like adornments at the top of each metal bar. All the shutters where closed meticulously and no light seeped through any of them, nor through the milky glass panes of the front door.

“Are you sure this is the right spot?” Hopkins wondered, looking at the elegant façade doubtingly. “Looks as if no-one is at home.”

“It is half past three in the morning, I am not much surprised there are no lights and that all seems quiet.”

“For sure,” the inspector agreed.” But considering that they are supposed to hold a prisoner...”

“Well, if I held one, I would hold the prisoner at the back of the house, so no-one would see I am still awake in the dead of the night. I would try to appear as inconspicuous as possible.”

I just wanted to step up to the door in the hopes of finding out, but finding the garden gate locked when a policeman on his beat came walking upon us, looking alarmed. We by no means could appear inconspicuous. Two gentlemen standing there in the wind and rain trying to enter a property that clearly was not their own in the wee hours of the morning. It was ironic in a very cruel way.

“What would two gentlemen like yourselves be doing here, sneaking around the houses at this time of night?” the constable confronted us, one hand reaching for his police whistle, the other for his baton. It was obvious that he knew, we did not belong to that household. 

But this time it was Hopkins who acted with astute quickness. Obviously relieved to have a local to ask, he showed the man his own police badge and queried if he knew who occupied the said house.

“You know, we have been after a burglar and we think he might be currently hiding in this very house.” Hopkins smiled sweetly.

“Do you need help then? There is a couple of policemen within earshot. I just need to whistle.”

“Please, don't. We do not want to alarm the man. Just tell us, who lives here.”

“Mr Granville, Sir.” was the prompt reply.

“Very good! - Thank you.”

Shrugging his shoulders as if to say: 'Whatever the superiors may want with that information?'. When realising he really could be of no more help, he walked on and had soon disappeared around a corner. While we let out a sigh of relief.

“So, what now?” I wondered, searching for a possibility to enter. 

“We need to get in somehow.”

“I gathered that much myself. But how do we do that, without making too much noise or rousing the suspicion of the people within?”

Hopkins just shrugged his shoulders. Again remembering the escapades of the Milverton case I decided that it was time to rouse all my criminal energy once again and break into the building. Checking for the policeman that was nowhere to be seen and whose footsteps had died away also, I began climbing the dangerous looking fence and somehow managed to reach the other side without any casualties to my attire, while Stanley Hopkins was not quite so fortunate, tearing the leg of his trousers.

“Darn!” he cursed under his breath, but landing otherwise safely on the other side, looking at me incredulously, shaking his head in silent disbelief of our currently criminal behaviour.

“You know, we have to abide by the rules, actually.” he finally whispered, as we had reached the open porch trying if by any chance the door was unlocked.

“I know, but sometimes there is no time to ask for permission, so asking for forgiveness will have to suffice,” I whispered back, trying the doorknob. It, of course, did not move. It would have been too easy indeed.

Taking out my penknife, I tried to lift up the hook that kept the shutters closed on the inside. It was completely impossible with the first two windows, but the third proofed to be insufficiently fixed and I could push it up and open the shutter with relative ease, revealing a simple sash window, that to my great relief was just as easy to open as the shutter had been, by carefully sliding the knife under the lower edge and pushing aside the window ledge – much as Robert Wright must have done at Harriet Stephrey's – actually now Harriet Holmes' house, only three nights ago. Very slowly, as to make no sound, I pushed up the window pane and looking over my shoulder once more, to make sure that the coast was clear, began to climb in. Hopkins followed suit, pulling the shutters close again, but leaving the window open for an easy flight, if necessary. 

“I will be in a lot of trouble if Holmes has got it wrong and presumably even if he has not. But, Doctor, I think unusual circumstances afford unusual actions, do they not?” he chuckled nervously, an emotion I at the time shared with him.

Lighting a match, I tried to take in my surroundings. We had entered a small boudoir, with two doors leading out of the room. Just as we had decided against the one opposite the window, it slowly creaked open. Extinguishing the match, Hopkins and I had just enough time to seek refuge. While I once more took shelter behind the curtains, Hopkins had simply ducked and was now crouching behind an armchair in the hope, that whoever had just entered would not walk around the dark chamber. Silently the door was closed again and I had just begun to hope, that the person had gone, when I could hear someone walking on tiptoe across the room and then heard a match been lit again, that in turn lit a candle. Wondering at this strange behaviour, I peeped out carefully, just in time to come face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

“I thought I would find you behind the curtains, old friend,” he commented, keeping his voice very low. “It took you some time to find a way in.”

“How did you know, we were in here?” I asked, seeing Hopkins coming out of his hiding place as well.

“I did not until I realised that the window was open. - This house is like a fortress, it was no simple task to burgle the back door, I can tell you. I thought you might have the same troubles on this side of the house and came over to let you in. But I see you managed quite beautifully on your own.”

“Are you still sure, it is Granville who holds your wife?” Hopkins asked, still looking uncomfortable.

“Yes, even more so than before. I found both of her gloves – and I do get the idea, she lost them purposely...” he held them up.

“And now?” 

“Now, Watson, we try to find Harriet, and you, Hopkins, will have the chance of arresting your child murderer and her willing accomplice.”

“Her willing accomplice?”

“Yes, thinking about it, I came to the conclusion, that Granville has not got it in him to kill, remember...” Holmes stopped mid-sentence as a shot rang through the house and a woman scream pierced the night.

Two more shots sounded - and then there was silence. A deadly silence. Helplessly Holmes grabbed my sleeve, swaying dangerously as if his legs gave way underneath him. It took him several instances to recover, at least halfway. I was sure, that at that moment, he never thought of seeing his wife alive again. Seeing it was necessary to take the lead, I was the first to move. 

“It came from above, I am sure of it,” I all but shouted, running towards the stairs that fortunately I could make out fairly easily in the dim light of the street lantern, that shone through the glazed front door. Taking two steps at a time I ascended and was on the first-floor landing without much realising that I had even climbed a set of stairs. Hopkins and Holmes followed suit, the former holding his police revolver ready in his hand. 

Throwing open every single door we soon ascertained that the first floor was devoid of any soul and so again, we took a flight of stairs. As soon as we had reached the second floor, we could hear someone move and underneath one door a thin line of golden light showed that behind it, there were people. 

With shaking hands, I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open taking in the horrible scene before me. 

“Good God!” Hopkins gasped behind me, looking over my shoulder.

xxx

Rhea Hayward stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Eyes that had been very much alive only a few hours ago and whose light was now fading fast. Still alive but in a kind of catatonic shock, I knew she was past saving, even if I had wanted to do so. She looked as if she had crawled into that very corner she now lay in, receding to die there like a wild wounded animal. 

Her injuries seemed slight now, a graze in the neck, a small hole in her bosom, but appearances where deceiving. It was apparent that the bullet that only striated her, had still slashed her carotid artery, blood pumping out of it, first splashing the walls in a gust of red liquid, but already just seeping through the light muslin of her torn collar, and that the one in her chest, had hastened that process considerably. That her life came to an end was obvious by the ever ceding amount of blood leaving her body with every weakening beat of her heart. With so many advantages she once had held, being small and bloodless proofed now to be none of them. 

As I took another step into the room, I almost stumbled. I looked down to see a middle-sized man on the floor so close to the door I had just entered through, that I had almost stepped on him. He had obviously passed out lying there in a pathetic heap of dejection and piss. But his breathing was regular and he showed no sign of an injury at all, save a few minor scratches. Hopkins, who had pushed passed me, bend down, taking the opportunity to put handcuffs on the unconscious man and getting hold of the chain that connected both shackles, he pulled him aside rather more ruggedly than was necessary, taking an unprofessional delight in doing so.

All this I took in within seconds. As Peter Granville had been moved, I was able to push the door open even further to reveal a most pitiable sight. Holmes who had been standing behind me, pushed past me, to rush over to the lifeless form of his wife, who sat upright, bound to a chair, the ties so tight, that they dug into her flesh, her head, bloody from a wound on her forehead, sunken forward and her hands, surprisingly unbound, dangling down on either side of her, blood dripping from her fingertips. A small revolver lying on the floor next to her.


	16. A Black Maria, a hearse and a Hansom cab (Watson)

A black Maria, a hearse and a Hansom cab

 

Kneeling down in front of his wife, Sherlock Holmes got hold of her hands, bringing them to his lips, tears glistening in his eyes and on his cheeks that he did not even attempt to hide. I had never seen my friend cry and it touched my heart to see him do so now. It took me a moment to realise that they were not tears of sadness – but of overflowing joy and relief. Sherlock Holmes rarely showed any emotion, but when he did, it usually took one's breath away to see the deep and caring nature of this seemingly aloof and austere man. Right now, the cool and level-headed detective was gone and in his stead, there was a loving husband who had been worried sick over his missing wife and who was now literally overflowing with the relief of having her back in his arms. Undoing her restraints, Holmes picked her up gingerly, her head once more resting against his shoulder and cheek as he carried her out of the room and downstairs. In that small salon we had entered through and where the candle he had lit was still flickering in the draught that the open window produced, he put her down, laying her onto the small sofa next to the extinct fireplace, taking off his mud-stained frock coat and wrapped her up in it, carefully wiping away the blood from her face with his handkerchief.

Harriet Holmes looked horrible. Her long hair that must have come loose in the struggle, was encrusted in blood from a head wound. Her wrists were also bloody and bruised where the ties had cut into her skin and her clothes were ragged and dirty and partially smeared with blood. Her breathing though was regular and strong, something that at the terror of seeing her this way, at first I had not noticed. Checking her pulse I ascertained that it also was strong and regular and it was only that the spirited woman must have succumbed to unconsciousness, when she had realised that help was at hand and there was no more need for her to keep on fighting – the exhaustion setting in, leaving her senseless.

“Will she be all right, Watson?” my friend asked once again. And it seemed a lifetime since he had done so for the first time.

“Yes, no doubt. None of her wounds is serious – it may take a while for them to heal and it certainly will take a while till she has recovered her spirits, but she has a loving and caring husband who, I am sure, will do his utmost to help her heal both body and soul.” I smiled, lopsidedly.

Holmes did not remark on this, but only asked: “Is there anything I can do for her now?”

I shook my head, but a weak voice answered: “Yes, you could hand me something to drink, please.”

We both stared at the lady, who still lay there pretty much as she had done before. But her eyes were fluttering and she was regaining consciousness.

Producing his hip flask, Holmes carefully lifted her head and poured some of the brandy between her lips, helping himself to a generous amount as well before passing the bottle on to me. A gasp and a small cough and a moment later, she opened her large dull blue eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking hold of her husbands offered hands.

The silence that followed, was as comforting as any word. Holmes just held his young wife and as I realised that I was intruding on their privacy, I walked back upstairs.

xxx

Reaching the second floor once more I told Hopkins, that the lady was conscious again and well, considering the circumstances.

“Good. I never would have forgiven myself, had she died,” he admitted.

Neither would have Holmes, I thought to myself, knowing how haunting such an event would have been. Once more my own situation came to mind, and I felt the desperate urge to do something actively.

Looking around the room, I observed, that it was furnished as a schoolroom with a couple of low desks to one side, where a large window, now barred with shutters as all the others had been, afforded enough light even on a cold winters morning to work without artificial lighting. Behind the door, where Mrs Holmes had sat, stood a plain but elegant Davenport, that must have been the workplace for the governess overseeing the children. It was the only item of furniture that seemed to have been in use recently, as it held a couple of sheets of paper and an inkwell, but surprisingly no pen, which struck me as odd, as smudges and wriggly lines on the uppermost sheet clearly showed that someone had attempted to write something. I made a search for it and found it flung across the room underneath one of the other desks, where it had left a small ink stain on the whitewashed wall, the nib bend and unusable. Not sure what to make of it, I pocketed it. 

Turning around again and scrambling back to my feet, I was just in time to see the unconscious man beginning to stir and Hopkins springing into action, reading him his rights. As soon as Granville had opened his dark and beady eyes the customary rite was performed.

“Peter Granville, I take you prisoner on the charge of multiple murder, attempted murder in several cases, assault, harassment, trespassing and abduction. I must also inform you, that everything you say from now on, can be used against you in a court of law.”

The thus accused let out a hollow laugh that ended in a measly whine as he realised the finality of his situation and the ultimate road he now had to go. He looked around for his accomplice only to see her lifeless form sunk against the wall, eyes still staring wide open into nothingness. The blood no longer flowed from her wound as her heart had stopped beating and no breath would ever again fill her lungs. Rhea Hayward was dead.

“I think, Doctor, I might make use of my police whistle now and get this man behind bars, where he belongs.” Stanley Hopkins, despite the success, looked tired and worn. “Will you be all right on your own for a couple of minutes? I do not trust that man to stay here on his own. If he gets the chance, he will make a run for it. Take this and do not hesitate to use it, should he try.”

I assured him that I would be and took the inspectors revolver, barrel pointed at the shackled man. A moment later I heard the shrill sound of the whistle and shortly after that the stomping of several feet that rushed upstairs.

Granville looked on in alarm as a couple of constables filed into the room alongside the inspector. 

“Get him out of my sight!” he ordered and the men bend down and pulled Granville up unceremoniously. 

“What are you doing?” the prisoner screeched shrilly, yet another display of his shabbiness and cowardice. 

“What do you think we are doing?” Hopkins answered in a voice so acidly that the merchant shrank away from him. “We bring you to a nice little cell where you will await a trial that, if I have any say in it, will have you swing on the gallows.”

“But have mercy! You are a Christian, are you not?”

“I am, but I have not seen anything that would make me call you such.”

Hopkins turned around gesturing me to follow, leaving the whimpering man in the care of the uniformed men.

xxx

“Do you know, what is odd, doctor?” Hopkins inquired, as we had stepped onto the busying street, the first signs of dawn showing in the east, as the sun slowly rose to a cold and rainy autumn day. 

“No.”

“That none of the servants did stir. I mean, we did run through the house like a herd of elephants and yet, no-one moved.”

“Perhaps he has none,” I suggested.

“He has,” a well-known voice answered. 

Sherlock Holmes had joined us, looking exhausted but happy, lighting himself a cigarette. “Six to be exact, judging by the plates on the kitchen table. He has drugged them with opium. I found the remnants of the dinner in the kitchen and was certain that I could make out the faint smell of the poison. You may guess, Watson, what they had to eat for dinner.”

“Curry, I dare say.”

“Exactly! I suggest you search for them in the cellar, it was locked from the outside with a padlock. The key will be on the man I guess. And now I will have to find a cab and get my wife back home somehow. But not before she has been looked over by a doctor. So if you could please join us at the hotel, Watson.”

Two carriages had come into view. One was the eagerly awaited black Maria, the other a Hansom cab. Moments later both of them came to a screeching halt at the iron gates of the Granville estate and two more constables joined their colleagues upstairs to carry a still pleading and crying, dirty and befouled Peter Granville into the police cart.

The other carriage though held a very official looking elderly gentleman that appeared fairly annoyed, introducing himself as Inspector Killian Macarthur.

“Inspector...?” he asked, raising one eyebrow expectantly, extending his hand towards me, not looking at Sherlock Holmes in his shirt sleeves and completely ignoring the young man standing between us, with his torn trousers and the ruffled hair, his moustache looking like a shoe brush after the very long day and the even longer night.

“Doctor Watson, Sir.” I corrected his assumptions.

Macarthur's cold blue eyes settled on the unfortunate Hopkins, taking in every bit of his appearance and his attire and obviously coming to the conclusion that he was not fit to be a Yard-man.

“So you are the man, that has refused to listen to a young doctor's very accurate findings,” Holmes interjected, coolly scanning the man himself. “And now you have come to reap another man's efforts, I suppose. Had it not been for this courageous young man, we would never have managed to get hold of the two culprits responsible for this mysterious disease among infants here in Winchester.”

“And you are?” he looked at my friend with equal disdain.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“And what business of yours is it?”

“It was made my business, when that young doctor you have sent away, asked for my help. Inspector Hopkins and I have been working alongside one another.”

“You are aware, that you are accusing one of the most liked and popular townsmen of Winchester?”

“I doubt he will be liked much longer, when his deeds come to light, Sir.” Holmes mused. “I dare say, he will turn out to be rather the most hated of townsmen that Winchester has ever encountered.”

The old inspector looked contemplatively at the still rioting and wailing man in the back of the black Maria, before once more glancing at the unofficial detective. Clearly mulling things over in his head and coming to the conclusion that at this very moment everything spoke against Peter Granville and everything for the three of us. He sadly shook his head. When he finally spoke again, his voice was less harsh and his attitude was more co-operative.

“You spoke of two men. Who is the other?”

“I spoke of two culprits. The other one is a woman and an equally popular member of the Winchester society - Mrs Rhea Hayward.”

“That indeed is infamous!”

“It is.”

“But why would they both do such a thing?”

“That is for Granville to explain, but I dare say, general deviousness, greed and a craving for power will sum it up pretty well.”

“So, where is the lady then? You said she was caught also.”

“Well, yes and no. I am afraid, no court of justice but the very highest one will ever have to deal with her.”

“I fail to understand.”

“She is dead, Sir.” Hopkins finally had found his voice again. “Her body is upstairs.”

“How did she die?”

“She was shot, Sir. In self-defence.”

“Did you shoot her?” he asked the young official, this time no hint of an accusation or of hostility in his voice.

“No, she was shot by Mrs Holmes – well, Doctor Stephens – or rather...”

“Perhaps you could decide whom she was shot by,” Macarthur scowled. “And who is Mrs Holmes anyway? Where does she come into play?”

Holmes opened his mouth to answer but was anticipated by his wife.

“She was shot by me, Sir.” the lady in question answered weakly, stepping out and into the street, limping, bleeding, scared and barely able to stand, leaning against the door frame. She was still wrapped in her husband's frock coat, that she had pulled around herself closely, her eyes looking haunted.

“Dear me! I think the middle of the street is not the right place to continue with this conversation. You madam certainly look, as if you should be in the care of a doctor, yourself.”

“That is certainly the first thing we agree on, inspector. We'll take your hansom then,” Holmes replied, picking up on his remark. A nod was all the answer he received and all the answer that he needed, as he opened the flap and then put his arms around his wife lifting her into the carriage. 

xxx

While Hopkins and Macarthur went back inside the house, I walked over to the inn on foot. As I had never been in this part of Winchester before, it took me a while to get there, retracing my path around to the park, where Holmes' coat and hat still lay in a sorry heap upon the ground. I walked over to pick them up, wrapping the dripping bundle together and tucking it under my arm, carrying on to the hospital and from there at last to the hotel. 

When I finally did arrive at my destination, I found both Holmes' in their room. The lady was already cleaned up, though her hair was still entangled and it took her quite an effort to comb through it, which she currently did, obviously glad of having something to occupy herself with. She had been changed into her nightshirt and dressing gown, sitting in a comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace, which had been lit, the flames merrily dancing in the grate. Her injuries had already mostly been cleaned, leaving me to only examine them and dress the more severe ones, that were more likely to start bleeding again.

What had been done to her outwardly was, compared to Hayward, rather a trifle. Painful, no doubt, and still serious enough, but none of the bruises would leave a permanent mark. There was a head wound, a bruised rib, a twisted neck, the bleeding wounds where the cord had dug into her flesh around her wrists and ankles, but nothing that should not be better within a fortnight. It was more what had been done to her mind that had me concerned. I saw the haunted look in her eyes and I did not think it wise to leave her on her own. Too unsettling had been her experience and her nerves needed some time to recover.

“You should rest now,” I told her thus. “I'll make sure a bowl of broth and a cup of tea is brought up to you, as you will need to eat something. But then I suggest you sleep a bit and afterwards we'll see how you are.”

Holmes, who in the meantime had cleaned himself and likewise changed into some clean clothing came round from behind an old-fashioned folding screen that sectioned off the washstand from the rest of the room.

“I'll order some food up and I fear I will also have to inform your brother. - Before he reads any of this in the papers,” he sighed.


	17. Caught Unawares (Watson)

Caught Unawares

 

About a quarter of an hour later, Holmes returned, followed by a maid carrying a tray stacked with food and tea for all of us. She looked slightly scared, her eyes resting upon the wounded lady, as she put down her load on the small side table that was dangerously swaying under the heavy burden.

As we finished our meal the bells of the cathedral began to ring, welcoming the day of the Lord. It was amazing how much had happened since Sunday last - for good and for bad. But at any rate, the children of Winchester were safe again.

“I think, you should lie down now and sleep a little,” I suggested, getting up from the small sofa at the foot end of the bed.

“No, I would prefer to have it all off my chest, Doctor. I know I need to rest, but I am wound up and scared and if I could share what has happened last night, I am certain, it would be much easier for me, to do as you advise.”

I was about to reply that it was just as likely to work her up even more when Holmes suggested putting her in bed and then have her tell her story – so that if exhaustion got the better of her, she could just sleep undisturbed till later.

And so the lady settled in bed, propped up with some pillows, her husband on a chair by her side and began her tale, filling in the blanks.

xxx

“First I think, I need to make amends for having broken my promise,” she smiled apologetically at Holmes. “But I have never dreamt of Rhea being any danger to anyone. I knew about her nephew from Hayward himself. He had told me the day before – I know I should have told you, but in the confusion about the charcoal and the dying baby I just forgot. And then later I... – I simply did not remember.”

“I should have asked you about your day, that evening,” he replied thoughtfully, taking her outstretched hand. “You asked me about mine – and perhaps I should have told you about my suspicions and theories, instead of keeping them to myself. That you followed Rhea Hayward on a plea of emergency I cannot hold against you. I would not expect anything else from you. That is why I… - why I...” he broke off.

“Thank you.” Harriet Holmes answered quietly, before continuing.

“I was already done and waited for Inspector Hopkins, when a young boy, badly injured, stumbled into the ward.”

“That would be little Tom, I presume?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, Tom was his name. He had much the same story to tell that I have. Anyway, Doctor Hayward and I tended to his wounds and I went in search of something to eat for the child as he was hungry and worn. I thought I would have to resume my wait for my escort, but suddenly Rhea Hayward stormed into the hospital, claiming her nephew Rodger had gotten a lot worse and that he would need me immediately. As said, it had never occurred to me, that Rhea would ever become a threat to me and so – thinking about the poor child – I did not think twice, picked up my coat and followed her.  
We almost ran through the dark and narrow streets of the slum and I had soon lost all sense of orientation. If I had needed to find my way back on my own I would have been lost and would have to rely on mere chance. I have to say, that I was surprised though, about the size of the place. I had not thought it to be that large and I recall, that I mentioned it to her.   
'It's an old town, Doctor Holmes, it has a lot of hidden paths and alleyways that one would not know unless one lives here.' she replied, hastening on.   
A moment later I thought I saw a building that looked very familiar again and that I was almost certain, we had passed a few moments ago. But again, she assured me that in the gloom I was deceived by my eyes.  
'One would really think we are running in circles, but the streets just look so much alike – particularly in the darkness, that one can easily be mistaken. Even locals get lost on occasion, can you believe it?' she laughed.  
I was somehow calmed down by her assurances and after a minute or two, we turned into a dark and narrow passage between two houses that one could easily miss and that led us to an open space beyond.” she stopped, her tale for a moment, taking a sip of tea, before bracing herself to continue her story. As she was speaking, she became calmer and calmer and it seemed she was right after all. Getting it off her chest would help her deal with the trauma.

“The park we had reached, was barely illuminated, and as we stepped onto the gravel path and had walked a few steps it became clear that it was not just a good deal darker here than in the streets, but also much more uncomfortable. The narrow streets had been surprisingly sheltered as the roofs where so close to one another that they almost touched in the middle of the street, now the cold and permanent drizzle that had set in some time during the late afternoon could not be avoided and soon my hair was wet and heavy – too heavy for the pins to hold it in place. One strand after another slipped from my bun until I must have resembled a scarecrow.” she grimaced, a small grin playing on her lips. “Rhea, wearing her broad-rimmed hat was faring much better. But I still held my hat in my hands, having tried in vain to put it on while rushing through the dark streets, my companion's hand tugging at my sleeve to edge me on. Now I regretted it bitterly.”

“Well, you have managed to disentangle it,” Holmes remarked, running his fingers through her hair.

“It took me a good twenty minutes, opposed to the five I usually need. Anyway - we crisscrossed the park and I had the eerie feeling Rhea herself had somehow lost her way in the semi-darkness that was surrounding us, when finally we came to a bridge with cast iron handrails and a little way behind, slightly to our left a tower-like building appeared. I had been to Winchester before, but only to visit the usual sights, and so thinking for a moment we had somehow crossed the town and reached the remnants of Winchester castle – we had certainly walked far enough - I remarked on it.  
'No, what you see there is an old stone build medieval dovecote.' she answered.  
'This is the dovecote?' I mused, thinking of little Tom.  
I slowed down, almost coming to a halt.  
'Yes. What is it with it?' my companion asked impatiently, trying to hurry me on. I thought her impatience a little misplaced, even considering the situation.  
'Nothing.' I replied therefore rather testily.  
Wondering instead, how the boy had managed to walk that far, considering that we now had been walking more than twenty minutes and fast at that. Unless of course...  
A horrible thought crossed my mind. One I was very keen to shake off again. But to no avail. Did not Tom say that the park was around the corner from the hospital? Could it perhaps be possible, that there was another park with yet another dovecote a street urchin could use as a shelter for the night? I somehow doubted it.  
We had by now reached the solid building with its rough and undressed stones and were about to pass it when Rhea suddenly reached for my arm, her body tense and her face alert as I took a sideways glance at her.  
'What is it, Rhea?' I asked her, but the answer was superfluous as from the shadows a man stepped out.  
He was not a very tall man, perhaps about my own hight. All about him seemed to be rather average. His built was neither lean nor chubby, his face, as far as I could make out, was plain, so was his attire. I would have taken him as a perfectly harmless fellow, had it not been for the fate of the little waif. And yet, how likely was it, that a gentleman like this one, would beat up a guttersnipe? For what purpose? For all I knew, he could have followed the call of nature and on stepping back onto the path had met unexpectedly with two ladies and possibly right at this moment felt as uncomfortable as we did.” Harriet Holmes sighed, shaking her head, gasping in pain, when her worn and tired muscles tightened in an uncomfortable way.

“I think you should take a break now,” I suggested.

“I'll be all right in a moment. I just need another sip of tea and perhaps a hot water bottle, for I am getting cold feet.”

Getting up, Holmes rang the bell and ordered some more tea and a hot water bottle as requested, sitting down in his chair again.

“There, your cold feet should be taken care off in a moment – even though I think it is rather a bit too late for cold feet now.” he chuckled. 

The lady could not help smiling and neither could I. I had heard about their marriage from Holmes, had thought it preposterous and advantageous, then changed my opinion, when I saw the grief on my friends face and knew that he cared for her, but seeing them together was another story altogether. There was something between them, that was more than words had been able to describe, more than had met the eye at first glance. It was something that made their relationship seem simply right. 

xxx

“It was only a moment that it took me to realise that I was utterly and seriously wrong,” the lady continued after she had had her tea and had warmed herself. “The unknown man stepped closer and closer, his bearing changing from that of a gentleman to that of a wild beast as, without as much as a warning, he grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back.  
'So there you are Doctor Stephens – or should I rather call you Mrs Sherlock Holmes?' he sneered, though never raising his voice above a whisper.  
'Just as you like.' I spat and then in a sudden impulse shouted out: 'Run, Rhea, run!'  
As I was still unwilling to think so bad of her. She did not move, however, but stood still and I could feel her whole body shake and then, the thought that for a brief moment had crossed my mind became a certainty. Rhea Hayward stood there, next to me, her arm still tucked under my own – and she was laughing. Laughing like a madwoman.   
My blood ran cold. The very thing that you had warned me about, had happened.” she took hold of Holmes' hand once more. “I had been trapped – trapped by the one person whom I had trusted. Had it been her husband who had called for my help, I would never have gone with him. Not without Hopkins at any rate. But it had been the wife, the woman I had always perceived as a victim, but never as a perpetrator. And now here I was in dire straits because of my misconception, with no apparent way out.”

“I made the very same mistake.” Sherlock Holmes admitted. “Only when I spoke to Hayward last night did it occur to me, that he was set up to look like the villain.”

“He is alive?” his wife asked astounded. “After all they have done to him? Thank goodness.”

“Yes, he is alive, but in a very bad state. His life is not in danger, though time will tell if he will recover fully. ”

“That is horrible – you know, he tried to save me.”

“I know. I know and in a sense, he has done. Had it not been for him, I would not have found you in time...”

“Anyway, let me continue. I am getting tired and I still have a lot to tell.”

“Then perhaps you should take a rest first.” I once more suggested.

“No, I will follow through with it. You know the longer one waits, the longer it takes to get over it.”

I knew all too well that these words were all too true.

“The man began teasing me for my naiveté, saying that as a doctor I should have been at least halfway intelligent and that I should have stayed away when being told so.  
'I cannot remember I was told such.' I replied.  
'So my hints were too subtle for you, weren't they?' the man mocked.  
'No subtle they where not, but I cannot recall since when you have earned the right to tell me what to do and what not to.' I replied, through gritted teeth.  
At that moment I was only angry. Angry at myself, angry at the man twisting my arm and mocking me, slowly leading me away from the path and into the shadows of the tower, angry at the woman who had lured me there. But my anger kept me from thinking straight and I needed to concentrate. I forced myself to calm down eventually. But it was hard work, I can assure you.” she looked from one to the other before carrying on.

“'I have earned that right when you began sticking your nose into our business.' I was told nonchalantly.   
'Your business is murder!'  
'No, our business is setting things to right.' he drawled. I began thinking he was a madman, too. And yet, he seemed frighteningly sane.  
I was about to reply, when suddenly he fastened his grip, even more, pressing his hand onto my mouth, gagging me. I struggled. I doubt I was ever that scared in my life before. He showed surprising strength and all I ended up doing with my resistance was making myself hurt even more. At that time, there was no other option than to let them have their way with me, struggling against the man's iron grip would only injure me, while keeping my head low might – with any luck – lull my captivators into a false sense of my submissiveness, which in turn might – again with any luck – give me an opportunity to escape.   
As he dragged me further into the shadows, I began wondering about his erratic behaviour, but soon became aware of hurrying footsteps in the distance. And then I heard a man shout out my name.  
'Doctor Stephens! It's a trap. Run!'  
I was completely dumbfounded to recognise the voice of Alastair Hayward. He was the last man on earth I had expected to come to my rescue.  
But before I could get my hopes up, Rhea tied my hands together, with a force I would not have given her credit for, and then bend down to do the same with my feet, picking up my hat from the ground where it had fallen and threw it aside angrily. I kicked and squirmed, but it did me no good, the ties where soon fastened and they dug into my flesh painfully. Desperately I tried to get rid of the hand over my face, attempting to utter a sound so Hayward would know where to find me, but all I could do, was making a kind of gurgling sound as a gag was stuffed into my mouth, as soon as I had opened my lips, the dirty cloth almost making me choke.   
'If you don't stop struggling, I will kill you right away,' the unknown man hissed into my ear and I could feel something press into my ribs that I took to be the barrel of a gun.   
I did as I was told, reminding myself, that keeping calm and level-headed was my only chance of surviving this situation. Hayward came ever closer and at last, I could see him round a corner and slowly walk towards us. He glanced around himself ever so often, trying to find me. I still cannot believe I was so wrong about him. But then again, he did everything humanly possible to make me dislike him.”

“That indeed he did. But perhaps, there might be a reasonable explanation for his impolite behaviour,” Holmes mused. 

“As Hayward had almost reached us and it became clear, that he would discover us, I was mercilessly flung aside and ended up as a heap on the ground at the foot of the archaic building, watching my unforeseen rescuer round on the man and his own wife.  
'You are mad, Rhea!' he cried his voice deadly cold like an icicle.   
'No, Alastair, mad is what you are. Mad to believe I would forgive a traitor like you.”'she spat, her face contorted.   
The loving caring woman I had known was gone for good and in her stead, a Morrìgan had appeared.   
'You, Rhea, accuse me of things, you yourself are guilty of. And even more so than I ever was.'  
'Never! I always believed in you and always stood by your side. Not once did I falter. Not even when your father's call of duty made me an aunt and you a father. I bore it all. Because I loved you. But then there was Rodger.'  
'My brother needed an heir, not a daughter.' Hayward replied. 'Do you think it was easy for me? See my son grow up as that of another?'  
'You were all too willing to comply, where you not, Alastair?' his wife held against him.  
'At least Amaris was warm and caring. You are a barren whore. A madwoman. When you forced me into our marriage I should have known, that nothing good would ever come from you.' he replied, regretfully.”

“That is what they said?” I wondered.

“Yes. I cannot make much sense of it. - But I do remember Hayward calling his nephew 'my own little Rodger'. Could he be his son?”

“It seems like it,” Holmes answered, thoughtfully. “And not only that, his niece seems also to be his daughter.”

“So you think Hayward had an affair with Lady Amaris?”

“No, not an affair. What were his wife's words? - When your fathers call of duty…” he stopped mid-sentence. “That is scandalous indeed.”

“What?”

“Remember the first born son of Julian Hayward? He died of mumps. What if the father contracted the illness as well, could it not be, that he became infertile as a result?”

“It happens next to never, Sherlock.” his wife reminded him.

“I know it is rare. But remembering the general panic every time a boy at school came down with the disease, I reckon there must be something to it.”

“There is. Though it is rather the side effects that cause infertility.”

“So you agree, Harriet, that it is possible?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Carry on then. On that point we will just have to ask Hayward himself, I guess.”

“With a few swift steps, Rhea Hayward approached her husband. How the cudgel had got into her hand I do not know, but with brutal force, she struck out and hit him over the head. Hayward stumbled back, his face showing an expression of sheer disbelief. But that was not all. Like a fury she began beating him till at last in a desperate attempt to shield himself, he managed to get hold of her wrist and stopped the abuse.  
'Let go of her!' the other man ordered, kicking me in the stomach to immobilise me even more, the pain spreading through my body, making me feel nauseated. He then stormed over to help his lover – for I am sure that that was, what Rhea was to him.  
'First, you let go of Doctor Stephens.' Hayward gasped, struggling to keep his rampaging wife at bay.  
'Never!' Rhea retorted.  
'What has that woman ever done to you?' Hayward asked desperately, his strength dwindling, I could see he was bleeding hard from a head wound.  
'I said let go of her!' the other man now yelled and when Doctor Hayward did not comply immediately, the stranger kicked him in the groin, making him topple over in pain.  
Only when they thought him dead, did the pair let go of the man, dragging him over to the Millbrook, pushing him over the water's edge. All went so fast, that I cannot exactly recall how all of this happened. Partly because I desperately tried to loosen the ties I was bound with, partly because I felt sick from the gag stuck almost in my throat and partly because the building was blocking my view.   
You cannot believe how relieved I am, that Hayward did survive after all. It would have been a horrible burden to carry, knowing that he had died because I was blinded and naive.” 

“It would not have been your fault. You should know that.” her husband told her compassionately. 

“I know. My head tells me, that it is the fault of those who lured me away, and yet, my heart still would have hurt.”

A tear ran down her pale cheek. She looked lost, like a child in the middle of an enormous forest with no apparent way out. Once more Holmes surprised me, when he scooped her up in his arms, holding her tight for several minutes, letting her cry on his shoulder unabashedly.


	18. Passin out (Watson)

Passing out

When her tears had dried, Harriet Holmes leaned against her husband to continue her tale. A tale that thus far had been most interesting and most disturbing.

“'And now to you…' the man had returned to me eventually, and I was almost certain I would share the fate of my colleague and end up dead in the Millbrook. - As I was quite sure that Hayward had not survived their maltreatment.   
But all he did, was pull me up to my feet dragging me, with the help of his accomplice, across the lawn and to a narrow little door almost hidden behind a curtain of ivy. Knowing that once I was hidden behind there, they could do whatever they pleased with me, I tried to resist them once more, but at some point, we had reached the passage and I knew there was no way I could avoid being dragged through it. It was so well concealed, that I hardly saw it and it crossed my mind, that if I did nothing to mark the spot, no-one would ever find me beyond that wall. Writhing my hands carefully, I managed to pull the handkerchief from my sleeve and somehow achieved attaching the bright white cotton cloth onto one of the many branches where it stayed as a sad reminder of a damsel in distress hidden away behind there. The door creaked as it opened and I was all but carried through it.   
We entered onto a narrow piece of lawn, not very well kept and obviously not intended for recreation but rather for domestic purposes. To one side I could make out the shadowy form of a large frame for beating and airing carpets and on the other there were several rows of washing lines while in the middle of the garden a low narrow building, I suspect it must be the laundry, sectioned off a small square to the right-hand side of the path closer to the house that made up the whole of the formal part of the garden, with a white marble fountain in the middle of it and a small whitewashed pavilion in one corner. The other features I could not make out as it was too dark to discern anything.  
Despite my predicament, I tried to be observant to my surroundings, thinking that eventually, this knowledge might come in handy. It was weird just how much I managed to take in, in the few minutes it took to get me into the house, stretching like aeons of time. But it helped me quench my fear, I know that this might sound odd. But it did.” she herself looked astonished at her reminiscence. 

“As the door shut me off from the outside world, the intensity of the darkness grew.  
But at least, to make matters more easy for themselves my captors had untied the cord around my ankles as soon as the little door was securely locked and from there on forced me to walk on at gunpoint, slowly following the footpath. I stumbled several times, as the ground was uneven and in the darkness, my eyes only slowly adjusting to the increased gloom, and the ground was nothing but one black surface.   
When we did reach the house, it was eerily silent and at the same time somehow alive. We entered through the kitchen door, crossed the scullery and the kitchen and I was almost certain I could hear a moan from behind one of the doors. It was quite creepy, I hope whoever or whatever was making this sound, is all right.”

“How was it, you lost your gloves in the garden?”

“I did not lose them,” she replied, surprised. “The ties around my wrists hurt more and more as they dug deeper and deeper into my flesh and I could feel my fingers getting numb. If I could but manage to take off my gloves, I was sure the sensation would not be quite as painful. In my initial struggle, the cord had slipped upward, tightening itself around the edge of my leather gloves, where it had got stuck. I tried my utmost to achieve my feat and I have to say, that I managed more quickly than I had anticipated, loosening the tie with every tug at my glove. It was just as well that it was dark and they could not see clearly what I was doing. At last, the rope slid down my wrist again and so brought me instant relief. - Well, as much relief as could be gained at a moment such as this. How could you see them in the darkness anyway?”

“I didn't. I stepped onto something soft – something that felt odd underneath my feet and I bend down to see what it was.” Holmes softly caressed her bandaged wrists. “I was astonished to find them to be your gloves, I could smell your perfume on them. I was almost sure you had left them on purpose.”

“Well, I did leave them unintentionally after all. And yet I did not lose them,” she answered, sinking deeper into the embrace, dozing off, her exhaustion getting the better of her.

“We should not exhaust her any more. She needs to rest, Holmes.” I suggested, looking at her colourless face with the dark rings under her eyes and the red scratches and bruises extremely prominent against her pallor.

“I agree, Watson and yet I also agree with my wife. It will make things easier once she has confided in us.”

xxx

After about fifteen minutes her eyes opened again and even a light tint of colour grazed her cheeks, confirming rather than contradicting my assessment, that rest was what the lady needed. But Holmes had been right in his remark the day before. His wife was headstrong and I could not convince her that she should perhaps wait for later to continue her tale. A quick drink of tea and a biscuit and she carried on determinedly. 

“Where was I?” she inquired, looking slightly disorientated.

“You told us, you heard a moan when you were crossing the kitchen.” I prompted.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson. Well, yes, after we passed the kitchen we got into the formal part of the house and I was basically pushed up the stairs. I stumbled rather than walked up the many steps to the second floor. When we reached it, I was manoeuvred into an old and out of use school room, the furniture and floor dusty and many cobwebs in the corners. It was obvious it had been locked up for some time. The musty smell adding to its desolateness.   
'Sit!' Rhea ordered me.   
It were the first words that had been addressed to me, since we had left the park and I did as I was told, sinking tiredly onto a plain wooden chair in the corner behind the door. - Where I guess you must have found me.”

“We did,” Holmes answered. “You gave me such a fright, Harriet. I thought you were – you...”

“That I was dead?” she turned her head carefully in his direction, looking him in the eyes.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry I scared you. I know I must have looked horrible.”

“You have no idea, madam,” I confirmed.

“At last that horrible gag was plucked out of my mouth as the man drawled: 'And now, Doctor, I think we need to have a little chat regarding your impertinence.'  
In the light of the gas lighting that he had turned up, I now could see his face clearly for the first time. He was an ordinary looking man with an unassuming clean-shaven face. His hair was a dusty brown and was thinning at the top, his pale pink scalp shimmering through. The only remarkable feature about him was his eyes, that were beady and slightly cross-eyed. He certainly was not handsome but looked respectable enough.  
'I have no idea what you are talking about,' I retorted. And I really had no clue as to what he meant. It, of course, dawned on me, that he was responsible for the dead children – but who was he? I had never set eyes on this man before.  
'You raising the alarm about the children being poisoned, of course.' he replied.  
'I fail to see, what makes this an impertinence, sir.'  
'It is an impertinence because you stuck your nose in matters that are none of your concern.'  
'Sir, it was made a concern of mine, when I was called in by the officials.'  
'It should have occurred to you, that your opinion was unappreciated when we gave you a fair and square warning. - That you chose to ignore.'  
'You mean that dolly you had hung up in my house, I suppose.'  
'Ah, so you are not as dumb as you appear to be.' he said in a mocking tone of voice.  
'No, I only seem to have an issue with my knowledge of human nature.' I set my eyes on Rhea, who was following the scene attentively, an aloof smirk on her face. Her companion chuckled.  
'Yes, so it seems,' he agreed. 'For example, who would really believe, that Sherlock Holmes and you are married? It was a nice try to save your reputation, but this is just ridiculous.'” 

Anger now gave colour to her cheeks and she reached for Holmes' hand. I glanced up and saw my friend likewise knit his brows. 

“I first had thought about setting him right, but after all, it was not worth arguing with these people. I knew I had a husband and I knew he would do everything humanly possible to get me out of this predicament.”

Again she smiled up at him and her smile was returned by an equally warm one. 

“And by God, I hoped you would be in time. The thought of you though filled my heart with hope and I relaxed a little. If anyone could help me now, it would be my husband - Sherlock Holmes.”

“I still feel as if I have failed you miserably,” he admitted. “Had I concentrated more on the case, I could have spared you all of this.”

“So it now seems we are starting a competition on who is to blame more.” Harriet Holmes chuckled softly, turning around carefully to face him fully.

“Yes, so it seems,” was her husband's rueful reply, though he had an amused twinkle in his eye.

“Then let us wipe clean the slate and say we are even?” 

“Deal!” he laughed, taking her outstretched hand.

“Good. Then let me continue, I am getting tired. And I think Doctor Watson will sedate me if I carry on any longer.”

“For sure I will,” I assured her, wagging my finger. Though I have to admit I was already too intrigued to hear the rest of her tale to follow through with my threat, even had been in earnest.

“'So what is it, you want from me, now?' I inquired.  
'We would like a signed statement of yours in which you tell everybody how sorry you are, but that you were actually wrong. That these children have died of disease and that you are still left in the dark, what they have suffered from. - And that you cannot live with the guilt of it, of course.'  
I could hardly believe what I heard. The audacity of their request made me almost speechless.  
'That, Sir, I will not do!' I answered through gritted teeth.  
'Yes, you will!'  
'You cannot force me to do any such thing!' I cried out, ignoring the small ladies revolver Rhea held in her hands, pointed at me.   
I know there are a lot of people who would panic in a situation such as this, but I grew deadly calm. Somehow I just knew, that I, despite appearances, was in the stronger position. They wanted something of me – something that they could only get, while I was alive. My handwriting was not the usual elegant script that so many ladies used and that was taught across the schools in the whole country. While studying I had not had time to practise it very much as rather speed than elegance was required of the students when taking notes and it had left me with a handwriting that looked very distinct. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that my life could depend on my writing.   
So what I had to do, was to refrain from doing what they asked without annoying them so much that they stopped caring whether I lived or not.  
How much time had passed I do not know. It could be minutes or hours – for all I knew at the time it could have been days. Again and again I was pestered for my false testimony and again and again, I refused to write it. The conversation changed from coaxing to threatening to plain abuse. Time and time again my hands were untied in the hopes I had been convinced and time and time again they were bound together again.  
They had slammed my head on the flat and smooth surface – more than once, they had idiotically injured my hands – before they realised that if they broke my fingers I could hardly write the requested document, they had pulled at my hair in a way that I thought my scalp was coming off and they have kicked me and beat me more than I am prepared to admit – and I have to confess that it was increasingly hard to resist the temptation of simply doing what they asked of me just to be left alone But a small voice of reason in the back of my mind told me that with that I would sign my own death warrant. And every time I was about to give up, this voice spoke to me. It actually sounded very much like your voice.” She squeezed her husband's hand. “And I wonder if it had not been for you if I would have kept my senses together.”

“I am sure you would have. But I am glad all the same.” Holmes replied with a slight tremor to his voice, more touched by her words than he cared to admit.

“From the corner of my eyes, I saw Rhea Hayward yawn and the man, of whom I knew by now was Peter Granville, looked tired and worn. Both getting more and more irritable, as the time passed. Squabbling now with one another in between yelling at me and I knew I could not hold up this game much longer.   
So once more I was untied, the pen put into my hands, the fingers forcefully closed around it and once again I was told to excuse myself for being wrong with my assessment. With shaking hands, I began writing something – anything that came to mind. Rhea had come closer, wanting to look over my shoulder, rightfully mistrusting me, the gun still in her hand, finger on the trigger. I did not doubt for one moment, that the gun was loaded. Her patience was running thin and Granville would not much longer be able to keep her from using it. He had lost his hold over her. He might have been more violent at first, but after all, he was saner than his accomplice.  
Standing next to me now, the woman had lowered her arm, the barrel pointing at the floor. Her arm certainly must be getting tired, I thought, a gun is a rather heavy implement in such delicate hands. And then everything went fast. I flung the pen across the room, where it landed with a clutter in one of the corners, while Rhea's finger tightened around the trigger and a shot was fired. I heard myself scream at the top of my lungs. Everything went so fast that it seemed almost unreal. I grabbed Rhea's hand, that was injured and limp from the recoil she had not known would follow a shot, and took the revolver from her. Granville looked at me speechless but so surprised that he was unable to move, while Rhea flung at me with madness in her eyes. I shot once, grazing her neck, the blood squirting everywhere, hitting my face and dress, then a second time, as this had not deterred her from further lunging at me. This time I hit her chest. She stared at me in disbelief, staggering backwards and crawling into a corner. I had twisted myself around to watch her retreat. Suddenly I heard a thud and when I wheeled around again, twisting my neck in the process, I saw that Granville had fainted at the sight of his bleeding companion.   
'What a ninny!' I mumbled to myself on the verge of laughing hysterically. Then I heard footsteps. The trample of many feet rushing up the stairs and men's voices calling out to one another – one of them I was sure belonged to you.” again she turned her head carefully to look at Holmes, who still held her in his arms. “At that moment everything went blank and I passed out as relief washed over me. - And now, Doctor Watson, I will follow your advice and rest for the remainder of the day.”


	19. In-laws and disorder (Watson)

In-laws and disorder

I left Mr and Mrs Holmes in their room and went down to the lobby, where I met Stanley Hopkins. He had been waiting there for us, wearing a fresh suit and an eager though tired face.

“How is Mrs Holmes?” he inquired.

“Well. Considering the circumstances,” I replied, sitting down on a rickety Chippendale sofa. “She had a very interesting story to tell us.”

“Oh, I believe so has Granville. That man would do anything to keep off the gallows. But I doubt even the most complete confession will save him from his fate. He dug his own grave and he will be buried in it.” the young policeman's voice was dripping with contempt for the prisoner and I myself felt little compassion.

“It is past eleven.” I glanced at my watch. “How about a nice glass of brandy?”

“I could do with a whole bottle.”

I laughed and ordered the drinks, which arrived promptly. We sat in silence for a while, both of us following their own train of thought and nursing their drink. A comfortable silence was surrounding us, only broken by the ticking of the old grandfather clock. I was about to fall asleep when Hopkins opened his mouth.

“You know, Macarthur has asked all of us to come along and listen to Granville's statement. That is, why I actually came here – to tell you.” he took another swig. “I do think he realises his mistake and wants to make amends. - Does not like having his name tainted with his ignorance. Particularly after he kept me from picking up Mrs Holmes on time.”

“You think he is that considerate?”

“No.” He emptied his glass before continuing: “But I do think he prefers to stay on a friendly footing with his superiors. In this case, he has let prejudice blind him and he now will have to be very cautious or another will be promoted to Superintendent.”

“Ah!”

“So if you could pass on the message to Mr Holmes, that Macarthur is expecting us around five at the police station, I would be very glad. And now I will go home to aunty Bertha and take a nap. I am knackered.”

Hopkins had just gotten up when the entrance door swung open and Sir Cedric walked in, a tall and stately woman in tow, who was undoubtedly his mother. I got up likewise, in the hopes of preventing a minor scandal. But as I bid my goodbye to Hopkins, the lady was already following a maid up the stairs, while her son walked over to us. My eyes followed the lady anxiously. 

“Doctor Watson, Sir,” he greeted, shaking mine and Hopkins' hands. “How is my sister? Is she as badly injured as Holmes' telegram suggests? What has happened at any rate? And where is Holmes?”

“Your sister is well, the injuries are severe, but they'll heal quickly, no doubt. She is well cared for, I can assure you and...”

At that moment the lady had come down again with a hasty step, looking disturbed and I could vividly imagine what had caused that expression.

“Cedric...” she tried, but the words failed her. 

“Good gracious, what is it, mother? Is something wrong with Hattie? Does she need a doctor?”

His eyes settled on me for a brief moment before returning to her flustered face. But she just shook her head, looking thoroughly taken aback.

“Then what is it?”

“She is not… - not… Oh darn! Go and see for yourself!” she waved her hand in the direction of the stairs.

Alarmed he stormed upstairs, taking two steps at a time and I thought it wise to follow suit, leaving Hopkins standing in the hallway, shaking his head alongside an equally perplexed lady. 

The door in question had been left ajar and Sir Cedric walked in, not looking left or right. He was almost standing right in front of the bed before he stopped in his tracks. Holmes, whom I had left sitting almost fully dressed at the side of the bed, was now sleeping peacefully inside of it, next to his wife, an arm wrapped around her, holding her hand as they both slept. It was actually a perfect picture of marital bliss. – Just that Sir Cedric, of course, had no idea, he was looking at husband and wife. 

xxx

“What on earth is this supposed to mean?” he yelled after the initial shock had ceded, rounding the bed to drag his brother in law out of it.

Both Sherlock and Harriet Holmes sat bolt upright, looking utterly confused and sleepy, the latter wincing as her injuries gave her trouble at the sudden movement.

“Cedric?” the sister asked, wiping her tired eyes. “Why are you yelling like this?”

For a moment I thought the squire was about to choke.

“The question is rather, what this man is doing in your bed? - And you!” he rounded on Holmes who had gotten out of bed by now, barefoot and in his pyjamas. “I entrusted you with finding my sister. And just after you assured me that she has no illegitimate children and everything is well, you apparently work very hard on changing that – or how am I supposed to understand this situation?”

“You are mistaken, Cedric” Harriet tried to intervene. “You have got it all wrong. We got mar...”

“What could I get wrong? I cannot even say how disappointed I am in you, Harriet. And mother as well.”

“Mother?” Holmes looked taken aback. It was obvious, that he had had no idea he had a mother in law living.

“Yes, mother! She came up here wanting to tend to her injured daughter and found the two of you lovingly entwined. - And look at you, Hattie! How come a decent woman manages to get herself beaten up like that?”

Harriet Holmes looked from one man to the other – from me, who was torn between amusement and loyalty to my friend, her brother who in his rage threw a tantrum not unlike a small child and her husband who just looked perplexed for once in his life – a small smile began playing around the corners of her mouth, which broadened and at last burst into a hearty laugh.

“I fail to understand, what is so hilarious.” Sir Cedric replied testily.

“No, of course you would not.” she snorted, unable to stop laughing. “But you know what, Cedric? – This week has been the most remarkable experience I ever had in my life, by far.”

Her brother just gaped at her, clearly thinking her mad and Holmes and I fought very hard, not to crack up likewise, so ridiculous was this scene. Her remark, of course, did not help much to explain the situation and she added, therefore, as soon as she had managed to calm herself enough to do so:

“But before you think ill of me again – as you did with your assumptions regarding Louise - let me assure you, that you do not need to worry about my reputation. I have merely shar...”

“You have been sleeping in bed with a man who is not your husband and you tell me, I do not need to worry? If your behaviour becomes known it will cause a scandal – your reputation, my reputation, the families reputation will go down the drain.”

“Perhaps Cedric, it would help, if you let your sister finish what she was about to say.” Lady Stephrey's voice suddenly chimed in. None of us had heard her coming into the room.

“Mother!” the young woman exclaimed, surprised.

“Yes, dear. I am very eager myself, to know, what exactly is going on here and why I found you in the arms of this young man,” she pointed at Holmes. “Though I have to say, Cedric, I do not think they were doing anything indecent. Look at your sister's condition. The thought is just preposterous.” 

“Perhaps not right now…!” her son admitted growling.

“Still, the situation requires an explanation,” the lady carried on, ignoring her son's snide remark.

She walked over to one of the two armchairs by the fireplace, turned it around to face the group and waited.

It was Holmes, who at last had regained his composure, who answered.

“Madam, at this very moment, nothing is what it seems, but to explain the whole of this situation, I will have to start at the beginning. That would be the day I got involved in all of this.”

“I am all ears.”

And so he began his tale. I have to say, I was rather astonished how well he could narrate this remarkable story. When he finally reached the part where he had shared the room with the young woman, Sir Cedric's anger flared up again.

“How on earth could you compromise my sister like that? It does matter very little that you slept on the couch – which must have been hellishly uncomfortable, by the way – and she slept in the bed. It is what people assume, that matters. That was absolutely idiotic, Holmes!”

“I am aware of that. But what would have been the alternative? - Remember they broke into her house, while she was sleeping, taking a dress of hers out of the room next to her bedroom, the door to the bedroom actually being open. If they had wanted to, they could have killed her easily. And now? Another thread had been made. I did not want to endanger her even more. She needed to sleep. Remember, in the morning she had suffered a severe shock. And after all, the events of last night showed, that these people would stop at nothing. What would you have done?”

Holmes looked challenging at his brother in law. Cedric Stephrey pondered for a moment, before answering.

“I guess I would have done the same. - But that does not explain, why you were in her bed now.”

“Of course it does not. - Not yet.” Holmes sat back down on the bed, ignoring his brothers raised eyebrows. “In the morning, Harriet had a visitor telling her, that an inspector from Scotland Yard was waiting for her at the hospital. I made the mistake of opening the door, not wanting to disturb your sister in her sleep.”

“You did, what?” the brother let his head sink into his hands in exasperation. 

“That of course meant, we needed to do something so Harriet would not be dishonoured. And we did.”

“And what did you do?” the mother inquired, but obviously already guessing the answer, as a friendly smirk was manifesting on her lips.

“Madam, your daughter and I got married, two days ago. And I hope that finally explains, why I held her in my arms when she grew restless in her sleep.”

“Harriet and you... - are married?” Sir Cedric looked at least as astonished as I had done. At last, he shook his head, turned around and walked towards the door. “I think, I need a glass of brandy.”

xxx

Punctually at five o'clock, Holmes, Sir Cedric and I met the two policemen down at the station. The young squire had insisted on coming with us, intrigued by the story that had been laid out before him so far. Macarthur had not much against him joining us and so all five men walked down a narrow flight of stairs and into the prison area. 

Only one cell was occupied and on a narrow bench bed the prisoner lay. Peter Granville seemed to have aged considerably since we had last seen him in the wee hours, the lines in his face prominent, the colour of his gaunt cheeks ashen and his once beady eyes now sported a haunted and desperate look.

As soon as he saw us, he once more began his plea for mercy and once more neither of us was inclined to pay much attention. It was Hopkins who spoke first:

“Stop that pathetic whimper, man! You are pathetic!” 

“But sir, you do not understand. I only wanted to help her. She said she loved me and I loved her and so I agreed to help her set things to right. You know, when a woman is abused a man needs to act. So we made a pact.”

Both Holmes and his brother in law looked ready to lunge at him.

“How dare you speak of helping an abused woman!” my friend growled, fists clenched. 

“I do understand your anger, I can assure you, but just try to see my point of view.” 

“First of all, I would like to know, what has happened to your wife?” Macarthur asked, ignoring Granville's tasteless remark.

“She is with her sister in Scarborough. I threw her out of the house two days ago.”

“Have you an address?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” He was handed a piece of paper and scribbled down the asked information. 

“Constable! - Could you please have someone inquire after this lady under this address?”

The guard on duty took the note and hurried upstairs.

“So and now, Mr. Granville, I am listening. Why have you poisoned all these innocent children? - And your own to boot?”

“I did no such thing! I did not poison these children, why would I?”

“And your daughter?”

“That little girl was not my daughter, sir. My wife had betrayed me and that was what had come from it. Was I supposed to keep her as my own?” he looked from one to the other for a sign of approval, which no one gave.

“How did you find out about your wives affair?” Holmes wanted to know, looking disgusted by the man's self-righteous behaviour.

“I was told by a friend, sir.”

“Name?”

“I would rather not answer this question.”

“That, of course, is your right,” Macarthur assured him, though displeasure at this refusal, was clearly written on his face.

“It was Rhea Hayward, was it not?” Holmes asked, staring the man down. 

The captive finally nodded his head, unable to withstand the piercing glance of the detective.

“Was that how you became friends with her?”

“Yes. I knew her before that, of course, but only as a slight acquaintance. Now, she had a philandering husband and I had such a wife. It seemed so natural for us to end up together. I cannot tell you, just how angry I was about my Heather's infidelity. And yet, when I saw this little creature, her baby I mean, I think I would have almost forgiven my wife anything and everything. I miss my little girl.” he sobbed. “I tried to stop Rhea from going through with the plan, but it was already too late and before I knew it, Eloise was dead.”

“What was your part in all of this? I am sure you cannot blame Mrs Hayward alone?” Hopkins dug deeper.

“I organised the arsenic. The flypaper at this time of year is cheap and I wanted to lay down a stock for next spring. - At least that is what I told people.”

“And of course you made sure my wife was threatened,” Holmes added. “And that I was unable to find a room.”

“She really is your wife?” he looked astonished. “I thought you only played the part. But yes. I sent a telegram to Wright about that doll – he owed me a favour and I also hid the doll and noose in the ladies room and I thought I could just as well take care that you would not have a bed to sleep in and hence needed to return to London and leave Rhea and me alone.”

“How did you actually know I was coming to Winchester?”

“I did not. But I overheard you when passing the hospital. You talked to Alastair Hayward and your name was mentioned and your occupation. Not that I had not heard about you anyway. I turned around and walked to the hotel quickly, where I bribed the porter. Then went on to take all the other rooms around town likewise.”

“It must have cost you a small fortune,” Holmes remarked.

“And so it did, but Rhea had assured me, that before long we would come into money.”

“What was her plan?”

“To get rid of her husband and inherit the money. Her father in law is very ill and it was only a matter of weeks, she said.”

“Regarding the last point, that is correct, but you do know that Alastair Hayward was not the first in line to inherit, don't you?”

He stared at us aghast.

“Who would be next in line? His older brother I believe died several weeks ago, making way for the younger one.”

“Next in line would be said brother's son.”

“I was told he died childless.”

“In a way, that seems to be true,” Holmes remarked thoughtfully. “Legally though, he is leaving a son and a daughter. This son will, when the Earl dies, inherit everything apart from a comparatively small allowance that goes to the uncle.”

“What Earl?” Granville's eyes widened more and more.

“Do you mean to say, you do not know about the Hayward Family?”

“Only that they are descended from a noble line and that they are quite wealthy.”

We stared at each other in surprise, but not answering him. 

“Did you also buy all available charcoal tablets?”

“No, that must have been Rhea. What would they be used for?”

Once more his question was left unanswered.

“There is another question, that would interest me very much.” my friend said after a while, breaking the silence that had fallen after Granville's remark. “If you did not know about the poisoned children, why did you try and force my wife to write a statement that she had been wrong about her diagnosis?”

“Are you implying these children have indeed been poisoned? Good gracious! That is horrible!” the prisoner exclaimed, looking stunned once more. “I wanted for her to write this statement to deter from Eloise's death, of course. Doctor Stephens' – well I guess it's Doctor Holmes' now - claims brought the police into my house and of course that I wanted to avoid.”

He wiped his face with the palm of his hands, his eyes closed and his breathing laboured as if he was repressing tears.

“God, had I just known… How blind was I? Was she even abused by her husband? Or was that a lie also?”

No one bothered to answer and Holmes made to leave.

“I think I have heard all I ever cared to hear from you, Mr Granville,” he said. “Just one more thing would interest me. - Robert Wright did not seem like the usual villain. What was it, that gave you so much power over him, he did what he was asked without much hesitation?”

“He killed a man some years ago in a bar fight. They had both been drinking and fought over a lottery ticket. Wright pushed the man against a bannister in a street, where the fight had been continued, and the man's neck broke on the iron rail. I had frequented the same pub that night, having dropped out of medical school that day, and had seen everything. It was not Wrights fault. He had not begun the brawl, the other man had, going at Wright with his beer mug, trying to bash in his head with it. Anyway, afterwards I helped Wright get rid of the body – a task that was most abhorrent to me, I can assure you. But I liked the chap. He had never made fun of me when all the others had laughed their heads off at my ineptitude. I managed to not look at the body and together we discarded of it, throwing the corpse into the river. He gave me his solemn promise that whenever I needed his help, I only needed to ask – no matter what it would be.”

“When on the slab a body reeks...” Holmes cited.

“Yes, ...Peter Granville refuge seeks. How apt these lines are. I was not meant to be a doctor. And I was not meant to be a killer. I should have become one and ended up being the other.”

xxx

“I cannot decide, whether to feel sorry for the poor sod or not.” Sir Cedric said when we had stepped out into the road again, the wind almost blowing our hats from our heads.

“Don't be sorry for him. He had a choice. Be sorry for those he sacrificed so willingly only because his pride was hurt and his honour had been appealed to under false pretences.” his brother in law answered. “And most and for all, be glad your sister is still alive.”

“That I am. And you? Are you glad to have your wife back?”

“You have no idea, Cedric. You have no idea!”

“I have to say, you looked very comfortable together. Considering you only met three days ago.”

“Three and a half!” Holmes chuckled, lighting a cigarette.

“That certainly makes a difference.”

“It does. If one's engagement only lasted half an hour, half a day is a substantial amount of time. - Oh by the way, how is little Lou?”

“She is very well. I am almost sorry she is not my niece.” 

Holmes just raised his eyebrow and turned around with a smirk on his face.


	20. The Story of Alastair Hayward (Harriet)

The story of Alastair Hayward

I had left Winchester the same evening as I had to return to my practice, feeling bad enough already for having left Verner on his own for so many days now. And so, once more, Mrs Holmes has agreed to fill in those parts of the story I had not partaken in. 

I had been very astonished by my mother's appearance. She had been travelling through France for all I had known, but on a whim had returned just the day before and now sat with me, doing what mothers do best - pampering their children.

Had I had my own way, I would have preferred going back to London the next day, but my husband and mother united in insisting that at least two days of rest should be given to me before I was to attempt to board the train home. Which of course left me with the difficulty in ascertaining which was to be my home now. But sure that a solution would be found, the uncertainty did not bother me very much and so two uneventful and quiet days passed in which Sherlock often joined the two inspectors in preparing the case for court or sitting in the library doing some research on medieval dovecotes.

And so it was only Tuesday afternoon, that we prepared for our journey home the next day, which first would lead us to my brother's house to pick up my little charge and only then continue to London – but only if it was agreed that I would be able to do so. I knew this was sensible, but as I have mentioned before, I did not like very much to be told what to do.

“You will have to get used to that, Hattie,” my mother told me thus, smiling.

“No, I will not.” I disagreed. “But I am willing to always find a compromise, that is at least halfway acceptable to myself and my husband.”

“Well, that makes for a good start.” she mused, then added: “It's more than your father ever achieved with me.”

We both broke out laughing. It had always been easy to laugh with my mother around. Not that she was such a particularly cheerful person, but she had a very fine sense of humour and found amusement in most situations of everyday life. She had also understood my desire to study medicine and right under my brother's nose had organised everything to make it possible.

As we sat there giggling, my husband came in, glancing over a letter in his hand, his brows knitted while he read. When he heard our snigger though, he looked up smiling. 

“You seem amused about something,” he stated, taking off the hat, he had only bought that day, the other one being in a state not to be worn in public.

“Yes, a little. But you appear severe. Is something the matter?”

He handed me part of the letter he had been looking over when entering. The Earl of Warnborough had died.

“I received this, together with this note.” Sherlock held up the other part of the message. “Alastair Hayward requests seeing me tonight at six, and I think you should come with me.”

My mother looked at me doubtfully, clearly thinking I was not yet well enough, but not saying anything.

“It seems urgent,” I remarked, looking at his strained face.

“I believe it is. One of his wounds got infected and it does not appear he will recover after all.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. It was a horrible legacy knowing he might die because he had tried to save me and while I was getting better by the hour.

“Then, of course, I will come. I need to thank him for all he has done.”

xxx

We reached the stately villa on the outskirts of town shortly before the appointed time. It was situated in a pretty little park, dotted with ancient trees. Situated on a small hill, the belfry of the cathedral was just visible from between two treetops. Our ring was answered by a young and for her position rather plain maid who led us into the sick room upstairs.

Alastair Hayward sat in his bed, propped up by several pillows. He was still suffering from a slight fever, but his eyes were clear and he recognised us immediately.

“I am so glad, you have come,” he whispered, managing a small smile. “And I am so very glad to see you alive and well, Miss. You know, the two of you would actually make a fine pair.”

It was then, that it occurred to me, that he had really had no idea we were married. Rhea had obviously been quick enough to seize the opportunity to denounce us but had failed to inform the people, that the scandalous lovers were, in fact, husband and wife. 

“Doctor Hayward – we are a fine pair already,” Sherlock Holmes smiled and so at last corrected the error. “As this is my wife.”

He turned towards me and brought my hand to his lips to kiss it.

“You are? Gods! How idiotic I behaved towards you, madam.” Hayward groaned. “I am so sorry. But I have to admit, I was disappointed by your seemingly lewd behaviour. It just did not suit you.”

“You should not exhaust yourself.” I reprimanded him, automatically taking the part Doctor Watson had taken with me, a few days earlier.

“But I need to set things to right before I die.” 

“But will you die, Sir?” I asked, walking closer to the bed, already stretching out my hand to feel his forehead.

“Look at this.” he pulled out his hand, that had been tucked under the blanket. It was badly swollen and sported a vividly reddish kind of purple, turning a suspicious black hue at the fingertips already. I got hold of the hand and took off the splint. Hayward winced as the bones in his broken hand shifted slightly. 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Gangrene,” I answered.

“Anything that can be done?”

Hayward, to my surprise, shook his head, while I nodded.

“But your hand could be taken off. It would stop the infection from spreading.” I looked at his arm that was completely unaffected. About two hands wide from underneath the elbow would certainly do the trick.

“Would you want to live without a hand?” he asked.

“No, but I would want to live,” I replied.

“Yes, but you have something to live for, what is there for me worth staying alive for?”

“Your children,” my husband suggested, sitting down on a chair. It had almost escaped my mind. Hayward though looked utterly amazed.

“How on earth did you find out?”

“When your son got ill, you said he was 'your' little Rodger – not your little nephew Rodger,” I smiled.

“And then, of course, there were the words your wife held against you. - How else could you be the father and she the aunt? - The obvious solution was, that you had sired your brother's children.”

“I did,” Hayward admitted, blushing. “My brother had suffered from mumps and as unusual as it is, he became sterile. When his first son died, he and Amaris tried for another heir for years, till my father, being ill already, became impatient and ordered me, to – well, you can guess.”

“You were married yourself already by then?”

“I was, Mr Holmes. That is where the trouble began. At my wedding. - And it is also where the story I wanted to lay before you, begins.”

I carefully replaced the splint and handed the patient a glass of water.

“Thank you, Doctor.” 

Alastair Hayward took a great sip of water, and I seated myself next to my husband. 

“Doctor Hayward, considering the circumstances, I will ask you quite frankly – did you know about the poisonings?”

“No, I did not. Only when you,” he looked at me sadly. “said that they were suffering from arsenic poisoning did it occur to me, that this time she was going all the way. But I had no proof and I did not want to say anything before I was certain. And I have to admit, that it was my greatest interest, not to cause any scandal that would leave a stain on the family name.”

“It would have been best then, Sir, if you had confided in me.” my spouse told him.

“Yes, I can see that now.”

“How did you meet your wife? It does not appear it ever was a love match.” 

Hayward laughed bitterly.

“I met Rhea at a ball in London. I was very young then, had just finished my studies and now was to find a wife and marry. Personally, I would have preferred travelling a little before settling down and tying myself to a woman. But my father had other plans and if you had met the Earl, you would have found him a very stern and forbidding man who would not tolerate the slightest opposition.  
Rhea was pretty, and she fascinated me, but there was something about her, that made me hesitant in asking for her hand. Sometimes she was just a little overly zealous, moody and easily offended by trifles. She could turn from a perfect angel to a fury in mere seconds.”

“Yes, I have observed that. But I have to admit that I thought it to be symptoms of stress at the work she had involved herself in.” A horrible suspicion dawning on me.

“Well, you only knew her for a few days. You would have figured out eventually what was wrong with her. You are a decent doctor. - I can see you connecting the dots as we speak.”

I nodded. Suddenly it made sense, where before was only madness. And yet, it was madness, that now suddenly made sense. I could feel my husband's expectant glance as he waited patiently for an answer.

“So I take it, your wife suffered from what is known as narcissism. If I remember correctly, it is an illness of the mind, where the person suffering from it, is basically pathologically self- centred, with extreme erratic behaviour, a strong tendency to manipulation and an overly large need to please and control. - Though I am not sure that alone would suffice to explain all her actions. Nothing indicated that she has been unable to discern right from wrong. It explains her overall behaviour, but not what she did.”

“On that point, I have to agree with you, Mrs Holmes, I am certain she knew right from wrong,” Hayward answered. “At the very least she ought to have known.”

“Has she always been like that?” Sherlock asked.

“As long as I have known her, yes.” was the reply, given without any hesitation. “But I think I should simply continue with my narrative. As said, I was not very keen on making Rhea my wife and so began distancing myself from her again. Her family was a respectable one, her parents honourable and indulgent – perhaps too much so, and I was certain that with her charms she would have no difficulty in finding herself another man, more willing to marry her. What I had not expected was just how much she craved to be my wife – I am not sure whether it was my wealth or the rank my family held in society – or if it perhaps was just her incapability in dealing with the rejection. She, therefore, wrote a letter to my father, claiming I had made her an offer of marriage to seduce her and she was now expecting. I then, of course, was forced to marry her within the month. Shortly after our wedding, she announced she had lost the child. And I, knowing that I had never even touched her, was tied to her for life.”

“Did she want to have children then?”

Hayward shook his head, laughing bitterly.

“No, apparently not, for she would not let me come near her. Not even on our wedding night. There was always something to fend me off. A headache, tiredness, and I have to admit I was less and less keen on... – well, you are married, you'll know, what I mean.  
At any rate, she played men well. Every time she wanted something, she utilised one man or another. At first, it had been me, of course, until I realised what was going on. She tried with my brother, but I had confided in him – he was my closest friend. I cannot begin to tell you, how much I miss his sound and friendly advice.” the beaten man looked sad and forlorn. I thought of my own brother. Even though we often differed in our views, I would not want to miss him for the world.

“But she almost managed with the steward's man and with the apothecary, and our former neighbour – who by the way hung himself, and of course with that Peter Granville – though I have no idea how they two ended up together.”

“Through his wife. Heather Granville was volunteering at the hospital likewise. Peter Granville said that your wife had told him, that his wife had been betraying him and that the child she was carrying, was not his.”

Hayward shook his head in grief and despair.

“And all of this happened because I just could not be the husband she expected me to be.”

“Doctor Hayward,” my own husband spoke contemplatively, “no man would have ever been able to satisfy her expectations. I dare say what she wanted was someone to manipulate, not a man that actually loved her. And when you ceased to be manipulable, she sought her luck elsewhere. - You spoke about the stewards assistant. Why did he have to leave his position?”

“Do you know, if he is still available? I need to fill his vacancy.” Hayward replied.

“So the claim that he stole some item of jewellery, was a false one?”

“I see you have spoken to the man. He is a decent fellow, good at what he does and honest to the bone. Of course, the charge was a false one. Guess what happened.”

“He refused to do, what your wife had asked of him and she claimed he stole something?” I answered before Sherlock could even open his mouth.

“That is exactly what has happened. My father insisted on getting rid of him and I did. Now that he is dead – I will rectify the wrong that has been done to him.”

“But for that, Sir, you will have to live,” my spouse concluded, getting up from his chair. “And I am sure, your children – and even your sister in law will love to have you around, no matter how many hands you have.”

He rang the bell, and without asking permission, ordered the maid to fetch an army surgeon from the next military base, which was only a few miles out of town.

xxx

“Why did it have to be an army surgeon?” I inquired while preparing everything for the operation.

“Because, my dear, they are the most likely to know how to amputate a limb. That is what they do for their bread and butter.”

I had to agree, even though perhaps I would have put it a bit different.

“Had it been a woman in labour, or a child with colic, I would have called for you, because then an army surgeon is perhaps not the right man to ask.”

“No probably not.” I laughed. “I took no offence. I just had wondered, why you did not send for any other surgeon.”

It had been agreed on, that the operation should take place in the dining room right away– the table there being a decent height and length and since no time was to be lost, now was as good as any other time – or rather better.

When the man came, Hayward was carried downstairs and as I pressed a cloth drenched in chloroform over his face, the surgeon beginning his bloody task. The sound of bone being sawed through had always been the one thing, that I had disliked during an autopsy when the skullcap had been taken off or the ribcage been broken through. But this time, it had a weirdly comforting ring to it. This time, it was hopefully saving a man's life.

I had come round to assist the doctor, and when at last the ulna and radius had been severed, I was there to catch the discoloured and still nervously twitching hand, still with its splint attached, in one of the enamel kitchen bowls. And I was quite fascinated, just how skilful my colleague worked. The blood vessels had been closed with a hot iron – ironically the one used to flatten the laundry, and then the skin pulled tightly around the stump and sewn together.

“How exactly can you distinguish between healthy and diseased tissue?” I asked as he dried his hands after having washed them.

“That is hard to explain. I have served in Afghanistan and India and over time I just knew. I rather don't tell you, how many have died under my care. Nothing is clean on a battlefield. Nothing ordered. This was a comparative pleasure. Have you done anything like this before? I was amazed you did not faint.”

I did not bother to explain. I was getting tired and I could feel my own injuries, though healing fast, calling me to rest.

xxx

Half an hour later, we were on our way back to the hotel. And just before we left, Hayward had regained consciousness.

“Now I have never asked, why he opposed me so much?” I remembered as soon as we had got into the carriage. Surprised at myself, that I had found him to be quite likeable.

“Isn't that obvious?”

“No. Why would it be obvious?”

“He is head over heels for you.” was the reply.

I laughed. “So you want to have me believe, that after no man had ever cared for me very much, I did not just manage to marry this week, but also turn a few additional heads?”

“I believe you have always turned heads, my dear.”

“And why would he be so contrary then?”

“Because if he had, in any shape or form, showed his attraction, he knew it would get you into dangerous waters and him as well, I suppose. As a matter of fact, he has always followed your advice most attentively.”

“Just not, when he released the boy from the hospital.”

“Did you tell him in person that he shouldn't?”

“No, I told...” I trailed off. 

“You had told Rhea and the nurses.”

I only nodded.

xxx

Next morning we got up early and I had cause to regret my late night. At least I knew, my sacrifice had been for a good purpose. 

“You should have rested, Hattie.” my mother scolded, looking reproachfully at my husband. 

“I saved a man's life, mother.” 

“Yes, I know. But you are not the only doctor around.”

Thus was the conversation as we climbed into the railway carriage, making ourselves comfortable in the first class compartment. 

“What have you to say to that?” she carried on, directing her words towards her son in law now.

“I agree with you, Lady Margaret, but I also agree with my wife.”

“Stop being political!” she wagged her finger at him.

“I won't. If I do, I will be doomed,” he laughed, while pulling me closer till my head rested on his shoulder. “But at least I can take care, that she sleeps some more now.”

“You, young man, are impossible!” 

“So I was told before, madam.”

“Oh, and do me a favour, my boy. - And call me mother for heaven's sake.”


	21. Saying goodbye to little Lou (Harriet)

Saying goodbye to little Lou

 

This chapter is merely to answer even the last question regarding this remarkable tale and so I have it end, where it all began. - With a little baby, a concerned country squire, a young woman safely returned, two men in front of the fireplace at 221 b Baker Street and a well-played violin.

xxx

When we arrived at Lewes, my brother was already waiting for us, Louise, tucked into a perambulator, by his side, making him look like a proud new father.

“Are you sure, you don't want to come home with me?” he asked, looking at our mother to back his suggestion. Which she surprisingly did not, glancing sideways at my husband who supported me with his arm with more strength than would have actually be required. 

“You only want to postpone your farewell to this young lady, be honest.” I pointed at the sleeping, healthy looking baby in the pram, who looked so unlike the little creature I had taken in to coddled her up with lots of patience and many a sleepless night. “You, with your two boys, would not mind a little princess, I dare say.”

“No, I would not. But apart from that, you look as if you could do with another day of rest.” Cedric answered and I realised, it was not an easy feat for my brother to let go of his little sister and see her leave in the arms of another man. 

I knew he had a point though, and had I been on my own, I would at this moment, have heartily agreed to stay even another fortnight. But Lou's mother, finally recovered, was desperate to at last embrace her baby girl. I did not have the heart to have her wait any longer. And after all, there was also my husband to consider, who seemed eager to get back to London and his creature comforts. And I wanted to go home at last, too, and as much as I loved my brothers family it had been some years since I had called his house my home. Over the last week something – or rather someone else, had become my home.

“I will have that in London, Ceddy,” I hence replied.

“Yes, but the baby? Who would take care of her? It is hard work, you know?”

I rolled my eyes. As if I did not know!

“Her mother, Cedric. And the nurse she employs. Louise is well now and so is her mother, I received a note from her while in Winchester. We'll drop her off on our way home and hence I will have every rest I could possibly wish for.”

“All right then.” Cedric sighed, his eyes darting over to my spouse. “But can I at least tempt you to an early lunch? - Or rather a second breakfast. The inn across the road serves an excellent gammon.”

My stomach was growling as I had not had any appetite before we had set off and I was all too happy to at least accept his invitation. Apart from that, I knew that my brother was right, the tavern did serve the best gammon that was to be had.

xxx

“You know what?” Sherlock asked me when we, at last, had boarded the train to London, Louise in tow, still tucked into the perambulator, waving our goodbyes to my mother and brother.

“No.”

“You never told me, why you kept your occupation a secret from your brother.”

“Oh, that old story! Well, it is short and simple enough - when I had finished school, I was packed off to London to be introduced into society.”

A grin stole across his face, as he made himself comfortable in his seat, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other foot on the pram, rocking it absent-mindedly as the little girl had become fretful, her little feet kicking aside the blanket that had covered her.

“Yes, that indeed is cause for amusement. Anyway, I was very successful in scaring away any potential suitor, as soon as I opened my mouth.”

“I see nothing wrong with your mouth, I think it looks very lovely,” his eyes fixed on my lips as he spoke.

“Thank you, but I think it was more what it had to say, than how it looked. My opinions are perhaps a bit too daring to befit a woman and in particular the sister of a country squire.”

“That I do believe in an instant. Though I have not yet heard one opinion of yours, that I could not agree with. But you are certainly far too clever to be a traditional wife and mother. The merely decorative part does not suit you anyhow.”

“Thank you, again. But you are not very traditional yourself and too intelligent to be scared by anyone who is clever likewise.” I smiled. “Anyway, Cedric would have loved for me marrying a politician, or any other man of consequence and take, as you have put it so nicely, the decorative part. Though a politician, especially a conservative one, would have been just perfect in his eyes.”

“Because he had just gone into politics himself, I presume.”

“Of course. And he had, of course, chosen a local conservative party, which at the time had made a plea in parliament, to banish women from higher education again.”

“Oh dear! I can almost see what is coming next.” he chuckled.

“Yes. I mentioned my plan casually over dinner one night and have to say, I was not much surprised when he did not agree with my future plans. - To put it politely.”

“So you and your mother made sure, he did not find out.”

“Exactly. - How did you figure out, my mother knew?”

“Because she showed not the least sign of surprise when it was mentioned.”

“Cedric could have told her by then. I am quite surprised he did not make a fuss about it.”

“He could have told her, of course, and I am sure he did. But it was obvious, that she had some deeper insight. And that she was the reason he did not make a fuss. Your mother can be quite daunting, my dear.”

I laughed, shaking my head in exasperation at the same time. How would I even manage to smuggle a birthday or Christmas present into the house, without him noticing? Once more Mrs Hudson's words came to mind. And then something else, something more pressing.

“Your housekeeper as well. - This may sound a bit odd, but how are we going to arrange our living arrangements?”

“Do you want to live with me?” he looked at me intently, stopping to rock the pram and sitting upright, slightly bending forward.

“Do you want me to live with you?” I asked, suddenly unsure of how we would commence. The past week all of a sudden seemed like a wonderful dream.

Sherlock had been sitting opposite of me, but now he got up and sat down by my side, taking my hand.

“What do you think?” he pulled me close and kissed me – or rather tried to – since as soon as our lips were about to touch, Louise began crying. 

I picked the unhappy baby up, taking her out of the pram and began feeding her the bottle that had been conveniently packed into the foot end of the vehicle, wrapped in a thick piece of woollen fabric to keep it warm.

“I guess I will have to get used to this, sooner or later.” He smiled, not the least taken aback, shaking the babies tiny fist.

“It is not very often I agree to take on a charge such as this. I have only done so once before and then only for two days.” I informed him.

“That is not what I meant.” he carefully pulled me close again, one of his fingers trapped in a tiny pudgy fist, and kissed me.

xxx

So we dropped off my little charge, and I agreed to come to dinner sometime soon and at last, we made our way home. - His home for the moment.

When we did reach 221b Baker Street, I was ready to faint and accordingly put into my husband's single bed, which in turn caused a slight uproar with his motherly landlady. In a state of being half awake and half asleep, I listened to the ensuing conversation through the slightly open door to the living room - not without some amusement.

“Mr Holmes!” I heard Mrs Hudson scold. “You cannot just put a lady into your bed.”

“Why ever not?” he asked pausing in his task of tuning his violin.

“Because that is an indecent thing to do.”

“How so?”

“Oh, Mr Holmes, do I really have to explain the concept of propriety to you?”

“It appears so since I thoroughly fail to understand your concern.”

“You cannot just put any lady into your bed, it will cause a scandal. And she is the sister of a friend of yours. What would he say?”

“I don't put any lady into my bed, I've put just this one into it. And besides, she is the sister of my brother in law. I doubt he would mind very much.”

“I never knew you had a brother in law. - But then again, I never knew you had a brother for several years, so why should it surprise me you also have a sister? - And anyway, it still would not make it decent for the young miss to sleep in your bed since she still would not be a relative of yours.”

“I don't have a sister, Mrs Hudson,” he replied calmly. “Oh, and before I forget, I hired a new page boy. He'll arrive in two days. From Winchester.”

“Never mind the page boy, rather be so kind and explain to me how on earth you could have a brother in law without having a sister? Doctor Watson, can you not try and reason with this impossible man?”

The doctor had clearly just come in. He sounded confused when he answered:

“I can try if you tell me what the matter is.”

“Mr Holmes here, put that young lady, that came here last Thursday – you know the one who fainted – into his bed to sleep there.”

“I fail to see the problem, Mrs Hudson.”

In my mind, I could vividly see the poor woman stare at her two lodgers in exasperated disbelief.

“By the way, Watson, have you written to your wife? Will she return to London?”

“Do not dare change the subject!” the landlady screeched.

“I am sorry, I thought it was closed.” was the innocent reply.

“You are pulling my leg!”

“I am, Mrs Hudson. I am.” I could even hear the smile in his voice. “Sir Cedric is my brother in law because I am married to his sister. - The very lady who now sleeps in my bed. And since she is my wife, there is nothing indecent in her doing so.”

For a moment everything remained silent before Mrs Hudson spoke again.

“Oh, at last!” she exclaimed. “At last you have come to your senses. It was about time.”

Her warm and happy exclamations were soon drowned in soft and soothing tunes, as Sherlock Holmes settled down to an afternoon of music. I had had no idea just how well he could play the instrument. The lovely sound soon carried me off into sleep and when I woke up in the late evening, I found that even a single bed can hold two people easily. 

A gentle hand caressed my temple and a gentle voice whispered, almost indistinguishable: “I love you, Harriet. I love you so very much.”

I turned around to face my husband, kissing his lips, before replying:

“I love you, too, Mr Sherlock Holmes.” 

“I did not know, you were awake,” he muttered, sounding slightly embarrassed, wrapping his arm around me, to pull me even closer.

“Does it make a difference?” I asked, caressing his cheek.

“It makes all the difference. But in a good way.”


	22. Epilogue (Watson)

Epilogue 

 

I had never seen my friend in a better state of health – mentally as well as physically, than in the year 1895(*). - The year following his seemingly preposterous marriage. 

It was not, that he had changed his ways or was less obsessed with his work, it was rather more the fact that he had become a much more happy man, than he had been before. Never realising how much he had longed for a companion by his side other than myself, I had put his excesses down to his eccentricity and had been proven wrong. By mere chance, he had done the unthinkable and married a woman he had known for little more than twenty-four hours at the time, and by mere chance, it turned out to be a real blessing for both of them. 

As the year advanced, their love grew. – In more than one way.

So all in all, a case that had begun in such a profane and a rather silly way had turned into one of the greatest and most consequential ones of Holmes' career, his life even. The stakes had been high, the odds miserable, but in the end, the winnings had been beyond all expectation.

 

The End 

 

(*) The return of Sherlock Holmes – Black Peter (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)


End file.
